#almost more of a letter to 16 year old me

[inbabylontheywept]

So: You have depression.

I'm 27 now. The last time I had a major depressive episode was when I was 16. I still have depressive episodes every now and then, but the worst tend to be a month, and most I can generally get through them in about a week. It took me a while to kind of figure out how to handle depression as a recurring thing, and so I thought I'd make a little welp-I-got-diagnosed-now-what guide.

So, first part of the guide: When I first got depressed, I thought that depression was the terrible, sad hopeless feeling that I had. It isn't. That terrible sad hopeless feeling is a symptom of prolonged depression. By the time I get to that point, I'm pretty well cooked and it takes a lot longer to bounce back. Avoiding getting to that point is a vital part of living with depression.

So what does depression feel like?

I am going to hammer this point home a lot of times while writing this: Depression is an anesthetic. It is not felt as a presence, but as an absence. The first absence, for me at least, is when life stops being fun. Every movie feels boring, I can't get more than a few pages into any book, and everything just seems... bland.

This is the best point to catch it at. I have found that consumptive patterns of entertainment do not do anything to help depression. Some people have told me that producing art at this time really helps them, but personally, I can't imagine trying. Instead, I just do tasks that I know inspire physical satisfaction. Which sounds like jerking off (I don't actually reccomend that route) but really means things like: Going for a walk in the sunshine. Working out. Cleaning the house in a fairly exhaustive way. Scrub the baseboards, wash the sink, clear the fridge, etc.

I recognize that doing those is really, really hard while depressed because depression causes physical weakness and exhaustion. The best I can do is, unfortunately, encourage vigillance. If you suspect you're getting into a funk, start on this before you get really deep into the mire. People that get into the mire can get out, but it's not self-help read-a-book type shit, it takes therapy and medication and patience and it is so much easier and cheaper and faster to just avoid letting it get that bad then crawling out once it's sunk its teeth into you.

I have found that for things that work almost by exposure alone, spending time in the sun and talking to people are borderline magical, with the caveat that talking to people about being depressed tends to make things worse instead of better. Talking about anything that cuts through the anesthetic of depression is ideal, or if it's sunk in deep enough that you're having trouble finding anything, talking to someone else about what they're passionate about. Ideally, you'd find someone passionate about a thing you know you're passionate about but are struggling to enjoy right then, and then you'd just let your mirror neurons run amok. Bonus Points

So, you're already depressed. Like, pretty fucking depressed, and you fucked up, and you let it slide. What then?

This is my I-Fucked-Up-And-Got-Big-Sad, Salvage-My-Weekend, depression routine. You'll need to make one for yourself at some point, and yours will work better for you, but this is mine and I think it'll work okay-ish for you. Until you get your own, at least.

I have to get up before 10 am. Staying in bed later than that gives the depression such a huge head start on my day that I just basically can't catch up. If I can't just brute force get myself out of bed, I will throw my blankets and sit cold on my sheets until that gives me the motivation I need. If I cannot work up the guts to throw my blankets, I will actually roll off the bed, flop gracelessly onto the floor, and then stare wistfully up until I can will myself to stand. It helps that every bedroom I've had either had freezing cold tile, or itchy coarse carpet. If you have a comfy floor, maybe buy a very scratchy rug? I cannot emphasize how important this step is. It's like, half of the whole thing.

After getting up, immediately go outside and sit in the sunshine. This provides free executive function, and getting it ASAP will make everything go much smoother.

Talk to someone while outside. If you have a roommate, they work great. Face to face conversations tend to be the best, but phone calls with loved ones are like at least 80% as effective. Calls to family members tend to be better than in face conversations with acquaintances or people you're mostly ambivalent about. Don't do chat messages. Worse than nothing.

This should have scrounged up enough free energy that you can clean something. I always start by trying to clear a part of my counter off. If that's all I got, that's all I got, and I still feel good about it. If that inspires me to do more, I'll run with it until a whole room is up to snuff. I don't do more than one room while I'm this crispy: The goal is not really to clean the house, but to work through a series of tasks that require some initial level of executive function but provide a larger amount back once completed. Life has a lot of these deals that are like, give me $10 and I'll give you $12, give me $12 and I'll give you $20, on and on, and the hard part is really just getting the $10. Some people wake up with $10. Most days, you will wake up with $10. But not when you're like this. You're gonna have to earn it. I'm sorry.

I am going to reiterate: This is what I do when I feel a funk coming on. My life and my schedule are not always this regimented. Living with depression doesn't mean never sleeping until 10, or having a weekend where you don't talk to someone, or take a break from cleaning. Living with depression just means never, ever, leaning into the depression when you feel it coming on. Even when it starts out feeling cozy. Even when you want to just snuggle into it and sleep and sleep and sleep. The first day or two will feel luxurious, and the next week will feel terrible, and the longer you wait the harder it will be to get out. You are always going to have to worry about that. Again, I'm really, truly sorry.

Bonus Bonus Points

I am not a psychologist, but I do have a theory about why depression exists. Remember how I said it's anesthetizing? I think that's what it's there for - getting rid of emotional pain when it isn't being helpful. People often get depressed after a major injury. Boredom is normally nature's way of punishing you for just curling up and doing nothing, but depression can be the emergency override on boredom. It makes sense for you to sit still and do nothing while your body is healing, so maybe nature temporarily removes all your motivation with depression and then just lets you be a limp noodle until you're healthy again. Maybe?

Back to the emotional level, though, depression might also be a way to muffle pains that would otherwise be so intense that people might not remain in control of the faculties. The pain of losing a parent is notorious for driving people so mad with pain that they ruin their lives, but depression is there to at least try and keep us sedated until the nadir has passed.

It is helpful to know what the purpose of depression is, because you will eventually get it from an "intended" cause, and reflexively fighting it then probably isn't good for you. And at the very least, knowing why this stupid thing exists makes the world feel like less of a cruel place.

There are a lot of interesting studies on the physical effects of depression - things like muscle weakness, increased pain tolerance, muscle relaxation, etc. that I won't go into, but it does so many things at once that it almost doesn't feel like a fuck up, but a feature that we just kind of lost the plot on. Not gonna deep dive on it, but it is something that probably shouldn't be confined to just a mental disorder.

[novaursa]

Legacy (the night is long)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Be aware of the unspecified time jumps and how canon events don't add up with the story's timeline.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: sun over the capital

- Next part: dark wings

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Jorah Mormont approached Daenerys' tent, with a letter in his hand. The parchment was sealed with an unfamiliar sigil, one that bore neither the lion of Lannister nor the dragon of House Targaryen. Daenerys looked up, curiosity flaring in her eyes as Jorah handed her the letter.

"This arrived, Your Grace," Jorah said quietly, his tone cautious. "It was smuggled into the camp by Varys's contacts. I thought you should have it at once."

Daenerys took the letter, turning it over in her hands, her fingers brushing across the wax seal. She broke the seal and unfolded the parchment carefully, her gaze settling on the words that began to reveal themselves. She read, her eyes widening as the truth of the letter began to sink in.

My dearest sister, the letter began, in a handwriting that was elegant yet steady. You do not know me, but I have long known of you. My name is Y/N, and though fate has kept us apart, we share the blood of the dragon.

Daenerys felt her breath hitch as she continued reading, taking in every word with reverence.

I write to you from Westeros, where I find myself bound in an unexpected alliance. I am now Lady Y/N Lannister, married to Lord Tywin, who sees in me both a strength of my own and a promise of loyalty to House Lannister. But know this—my heart remains true to our blood, our lineage. You are not alone, Daenerys. Though we are separated by sea and circumstance, you have a sister here who thinks of you, who carries your memory, even though we have yet to meet.

Daenerys’s hands trembled slightly as she lowered the letter, her mind racing, filled with emotions she couldn’t quite name. This was her sister—a sister she had never known, reaching out to her across the world. The realization felt both profound and bittersweet.

Noticing her expression, Jorah leaned forward, concern etched in his brow. "Your Grace," he asked gently, "what is it? Who wrote to you?"

Daenerys took a steadying breath, her gaze unfocused as she tried to process what she had read. "It’s… from my sister," she whispered, almost as if saying it aloud would make it more real. "A sister I’ve never met. Her name is Y/N, and she’s… married to Tywin Lannister."

Jorah’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, though he masked it quickly. "Tywin Lannister," he murmured, his tone both shocked and wary. "I had heard rumors of his new marriage, but I never expected it to be to a Targaryen."

Daenerys looked at him, her expression filled with a mixture of wonder and sadness. "She says she’s thought of me. That I am not alone." She paused, her voice softening. "Did you ever see her, Jorah? In the North, when she was a ward at Winterfell?"

Jorah thought for a moment, casting his mind back over the years. "Yes, Your Grace," he said quietly. "I saw her once, many years ago. I was a young man then, visiting Winterfell on some matter for my father, Lord Jeor. She would have been just a girl then, but she had a certain… presence."

Daenerys leaned forward, her eyes bright with interest. "Tell me about her."

Jorah smiled faintly, recalling the memory as if dusting off an old, cherished book. "She was quiet, but there was a strength in her that couldn’t be ignored. She carried herself with grace, even then—a grace I could see was not learned from the North. She had the look of a Targaryen, unmistakable silver hair and violet eyes, and yet there was something solemn about her. I remember thinking she seemed like she carried a great weight, even as a young girl."

He paused, his gaze distant as he remembered. "The Stark children seemed to adore her. Robb Stark, Jon Snow… they were just boys then, but she was close to them. And Arya—she followed her around like a shadow. Y/N took Jon under her wing, I remember. It was as if she had a purpose that even she couldn’t yet name."

Daenerys listened, her heart aching with each word. "So she was… loved," she murmured, almost to herself. "She wasn’t alone."

Jorah nodded, his gaze softening as he looked at her. "No, she wasn’t. She became a part of Winterfell. The North can be a harsh place, but it’s loyal to those who earn its trust. And she earned it."

Daenerys looked down at the letter again, a sense of warmth filling her despite the bittersweet nature of it. "I wonder what kind of life she has now… married to Tywin Lannister of all people."

Jorah’s expression darkened, his voice cautious. "Tywin Lannister is a calculating man, Your Grace. He sees people as assets, tools to be used for his legacy. I don’t doubt he sees her in the same way. But your sister must be strong—she survived Winterfell, and she made a place for herself there. She’ll find a way to endure in the Red Keep, too."

Daenerys nodded slowly, her fingers brushing the edge of the letter as though she could feel her sister’s presence through the words. "She says that her heart remains true to our blood," she murmured, her eyes fierce with newfound determination. "I may be in Essos, and she may be bound to the Lannisters, but we are Targaryens. We are still family."

Jorah’s gaze softened, admiration in his eyes. "A family reunited, perhaps. Someday."

Daenerys looked up at him, a spark of hope igniting in her heart. "Yes. Someday," she agreed softly. She folded the letter carefully, tucking it close to her heart. "Until then, I will remember her words—and the promise that we are not alone."

Wrapped in a plain, dark cloak that concealed your features, you made your way through the narrow, winding streets of King’s Landing, keeping your gaze low as Ser Barristan Selmy walked by your side, ever vigilant. The sky was cast in shades of twilight, the lingering golden glow of the sunset slipping away, giving way to the shadows of the evening.

You cast a glance at Barristan, who looked deeply displeased, his brow furrowed in a way you’d rarely seen. He’d been silent most of the journey, but as the brothel finally came into view, he couldn’t help himself.

“My lady,” he murmured, his tone respectful yet firm, “this… this place is beneath you. Surely, a prince could arrange to meet somewhere more dignified.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips, though it was tinged with a hint of irony. “Knowing Oberyn, I suspect he chose this location precisely for that reason, Ser Barristan,” you replied softly. “It amuses him, I imagine, to think of a Lannister bride stepping into a place like this.”

Barristan’s disapproving look didn’t waver, but he remained quiet as you pushed open the heavy door, stepping inside the dimly lit room. The air was thick with the scent of incense and perfumed oils, mingling with the low hum of laughter and whispers from the patrons scattered around. It was an ambiance that spoke of indulgence and secrecy, and yet, you felt a certain comfort in its anonymity.

In the center of the room, reclining on a plush chaise, was Oberyn Martell, dressed in his usual vibrant colors, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement as he spotted you. At his side, with a quiet, knowing smile, sat Ellaria Sand, her gaze warm yet calculating as she took you in.

“Well, well,” Oberyn drawled, his voice like silk as he looked you up and down, noting the plainness of your disguise with a smirk. “The new Lady Lannister gracing us with her presence, in such humble surroundings. I must say, Y/N, marriage has brought you to… interesting places.”

You smiled, pulling back your hood and allowing him to see your face fully. “And you’ve always had a taste for… unconventional meeting places, Oberyn. You haven’t changed.”

Ellaria laughed softly, her gaze resting on you with curiosity. “Tywin’s bride herself,” she mused, her tone smooth. “I must admit, I didn’t think I’d ever see a Targaryen in Lannister colors. How curious fate can be.”

You offered her a polite nod, though you couldn’t miss the slight bitterness beneath her words. “Lady Ellaria. I suspect fate has played its hand here more than once.”

Oberyn watched you, his eyes glinting with something unreadable as he poured himself a glass of wine. He gestured for you to join them, patting the seat beside him. “Come, sit with us. We have much to discuss, I think. So many bonds between our families, so many… tragedies.”

The words were spoken lightly, but they held a sharp edge that settled uneasily in your chest. You took a seat, Barristan standing protectively behind you, his presence a reassuring reminder of unwavering loyalty and honor.

Oberyn regarded you for a long moment, his smile fading as he tilted his head thoughtfully. “And so here you are, Lady Lannister, wife to the very man responsible for the destruction of both our families. Does that sit well with you?”

You met his gaze steadily, though the weight of his words pressed heavily on you. “Oberyn,” you began, choosing your words carefully, “you know as well as I do that we are often given choices… with very limited options.”

He leaned closer, his voice lowering, his tone soft but laced with bitterness. “I suppose you know that better than most. But tell me, does Tywin Lannister whisper anything to you in those quiet hours about the screams of Elia, of her children? Does he confess his sins to you as if they might be absolved?”

Your heart pounded, the familiar ache resurfacing with each word. You knew well the horrors he spoke of; they had haunted you ever since you first learned of your family’s brutal end. You lowered your gaze, struggling to maintain composure. “I have no need to hear it from him,” you whispered, your voice barely steady. “I remember all too well, Oberyn.”

Oberyn’s expression softened just slightly, though his eyes remained sharp. “And yet, here you are, tied to him. You, a Targaryen, bound to the man whose legacy is soaked in blood—our blood. Elia, Rhaegar, their children… they should be here, living, and yet their lives were ended so that your husband could secure his power.”

A shuddering breath escaped you, and you held up a hand, your voice trembling. “Please, Oberyn… I do not wish to hear more.”

For a moment, he studied you, his anger giving way to a flicker of understanding, though it did not diminish the fire in his gaze. “Very well,” he said, his voice softening. “I can see it pains you as it pains me. But make no mistake—I am here in King’s Landing for two things.”

You looked up at him, the question clear in your eyes. “And what would those be?”

“Vengeance,” he said, the word slipping from his lips with the weight of years behind it. “For Elia. For her children.” His gaze hardened, his voice carrying a quiet, lethal promise. “Justice, however long it takes, however I may have to find it.”

Your heart twisted as he spoke, a mixture of fear and empathy welling up inside you. “And the second reason?” you asked, almost dreading the answer.

Oberyn’s lips curled into a smile, though it lacked warmth. “Why, the royal wedding, of course,” he replied with feigned cheer. “A grand occasion, the whole realm gathered to watch the next king unite with his bride. The perfect stage for anyone with a purpose… and the perfect place to leave an impression.”

Ellaria, who had been watching silently, leaned forward, placing a comforting hand on Oberyn’s arm. “We have waited a long time, and now, we are here. The world will remember what was done to our family.”

You sat in silence, absorbing their words, understanding the unspoken intentions that lay beneath them. There was no mistaking Oberyn’s resolve, nor Ellaria’s quiet fury. You felt caught between two worlds—the blood of your family calling for vengeance, and the precarious ties that now bound you to House Lannister.

“Oberyn,” you said softly, meeting his gaze, “I… I do not ask for forgiveness, nor can I pretend that anything I do could ever make amends for what happened to your sister. But I hope that you know… I have never forgotten. I have never betrayed our blood.”

Oberyn’s expression softened, a shadow of compassion in his eyes. “I know,” he replied quietly. “I don’t blame you, Y/N. But I am not here to forgive, either.”

You nodded, a heavy silence settling over you both. The weight of the past hung thick in the air, filling the space between you, an invisible chasm that could never truly be crossed. Yet, even in that silence, there was an understanding, a recognition of shared loss and the scars it left behind.

Finally, Oberyn’s expression shifted, a flicker of his old charm resurfacing as he gave you a sardonic smile. “But tell me, Lady Lannister—how does it feel to bear that name? To share the bed of the man who holds our fates in his hands?”

You managed a faint, humorless smile, your voice soft but steady. “It feels… like survival, Oberyn. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.”

He chuckled, though there was no real amusement in it. “Survival,” he echoed. “A fitting answer, I suppose. Just remember, Y/N… survival comes with a price.”

As he leaned back, pouring another glass of wine, Ellaria’s gaze softened as she watched you, her voice gentle. “If you ever need allies, Y/N… remember that we understand you, more than the lions ever could.”

You nodded, feeling the truth of her words settle deep within you. Here, in this darkened brothel, surrounded by the bitterness of shared pain and the fire of quiet vengeance, you felt a strange sense of kinship—a bond forged in blood, loss, and the relentless desire for justice.

And as you rose to leave, with Barristan by your side, you carried with you the weight of their words, their promise, and the unspoken knowledge that, though you wore the colors of a lion, the blood of the dragon and the Martell ties would never truly let you go.

In the quiet shadows of his private solar, Tywin sat at his desk, his fingers steepled as he listened to Littlefinger’s report, his expression as inscrutable as ever. Lord Baelish, standing just a few paces away, shifted his weight, his usual smooth smile in place, though his eyes were sharp, always watching, always calculating.

“The men you stationed around the brothel have remained vigilant, Lord Tywin,” Littlefinger reported, his tone measured. “No disturbances to speak of—at least, none beyond what’s customary in a place like that.” He allowed himself a wry smile, though Tywin’s cold gaze did little to encourage it.

Tywin’s gaze was fixed on a map stretched across his desk, though it was clear his thoughts lay elsewhere. “Good,” he replied curtly. “My wife’s safety is paramount. It is imperative that Prince Oberyn and his paramour understand that they are in King’s Landing at my discretion, not theirs.”

Littlefinger’s eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief. “Ah, Prince Oberyn. Quite the guest of honor, isn’t he?” He folded his hands neatly, his gaze never leaving Tywin’s. “Dorne is rarely so cooperative when it comes to Lannister matters. One has to wonder what they hope to accomplish by bringing him to the capital now.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Oberyn’s presence here is a reminder of the alliance Dorne holds with the crown,” he stated, his tone as sharp as a blade. “They may smile and offer pleasantries, but they haven’t forgotten what happened to Elia, nor will they. I suspect Oberyn is here not only to attend the royal wedding but to assess how far we can be pushed.”

Littlefinger tilted his head, a glimmer of intrigue in his gaze. “And what do you intend to do about it, my lord?”

Tywin looked up, his eyes cold and calculating. “For now, we extend them the courtesy due to their status. The Martells are careful, and they won’t risk open defiance… yet.” He allowed himself a pause, studying Baelish’s expression as he continued. “But make no mistake—Oberyn and his ilk must be reminded that this is my realm. The Red Keep is not a playground for Dornish revenge fantasies.”

Baelish nodded slowly, a small smile curving his lips. “The Dornish are known for their tempers, after all. And Oberyn is as infamous for his passions as he is for his fighting skills. One might say he’s an ideal instrument to incite… disorder, if left unchecked.”

Tywin’s gaze remained unyielding, his tone filled with quiet disdain. “Disorder is something I do not tolerate. Prince Oberyn will have to curb his impulses while he’s in my city, or he will be reminded of the consequences of forgetting one’s place.” He leaned back, his gaze sharpening. “You are to keep your eyes on him, Baelish. Any shift in his intentions, any move that hints at more than courtesy—report it to me directly.”

Littlefinger inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “Of course, my lord. Though one has to wonder… might it not serve House Lannister’s interests to… encourage Oberyn’s passions in a more controlled setting? A bit of a… release valve, if you will.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “You mean to tempt him into some reckless act, a slip of temper that could justify an official response.”

Baelish allowed himself a slight shrug, his expression one of feigned innocence. “Not as crude as that, Lord Tywin, of course. But… Dorne is known for its pride. Oberyn is unlikely to let slights lie—he’ll strike if prodded.”

Tywin considered this, his fingers tapping lightly against the desk. “Oberyn Martell is not a fool,” he said slowly. “He knows we are watching him, and he knows the cost of defiance. But if he were… convinced to show his hand, to reveal just how far he’s willing to go—perhaps, yes, that would indeed serve a purpose.”

Littlefinger’s smile grew a fraction wider, his tone light and conspiratorial. “I may have just the contacts, my lord. A few whispers, a few… strategic pressures in the right quarters. Prince Oberyn may find himself slightly less at ease than he hoped.”

Tywin’s gaze held a glint of satisfaction, though he remained as stoic as ever. “Very well. Proceed. But ensure it’s done subtly. The last thing we need is for the Dornish to think they’ve been provoked outright.”

“Of course, my lord,” Littlefinger replied smoothly. “I would never think of disrupting such a… delicate balance.” He gave a slight bow, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. “And as for Lady Y/N’s protection, I assure you, the measures in place will continue. My men will see to it that her privacy and safety remain undisturbed.”

Tywin gave a short nod of approval, his gaze flickering to the map once more, though his mind seemed fixed on his growing plan. “Good. The fewer chances Oberyn has to weave himself into my wife’s affairs, the better.”

Littlefinger’s smirk deepened, though he kept his tone respectful. “It’s rare to see you so… invested, Lord Tywin.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, a cold warning in his eyes. “My family is my legacy, Baelish. That is not something I gamble with. Remember that, as you work with those whispers of yours.”

Littlefinger inclined his head, his face the very picture of compliance. “Of course, my lord. I live to serve.”

With that, he slipped from the chamber, leaving Tywin to consider the intricate dance of alliances, enemies, and strategy that was unfolding with Oberyn Martell in King’s Landing.

Joffrey paced back and forth in the golden glow of the late afternoon, the flickering shadows playing across his features. The tension in his expression was unmistakable, his mouth pressed into a tight, dissatisfied line. Margaery watched him from her seat beside the large, open window, her calm demeanor masking the unease she felt as she observed the king’s agitation. She’d seen him like this before—when his pride had been bruised or when something had threatened his sense of power—and knew it was best to tread carefully.

“Joffrey,” she began gently, her voice warm and soothing, “perhaps you might tell me what’s on your mind. It pains me to see you so troubled.”

Joffrey stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing as he looked out the window, avoiding her gaze. “That… that child,” he hissed, venom lacing his words. “That Targaryen bastard Tywin has whelped on her. It has no place here, Margaery. And yet everyone’s acting as if it’s some great blessing to House Lannister!”

Margaery nodded, tilting her head thoughtfully, though her expression remained soft and supportive. “I understand,” she replied calmly. “A child with both Targaryen and Lannister blood would… naturally cause quite a stir. But remember, Joffrey, you are the king. No one can challenge that.”

Joffrey let out a sharp, derisive laugh, his hand gripping the back of a nearby chair so hard his knuckles turned white. “Do you think that matters to them? To Tywin? Or to… her?” He spat the last word with distaste. “They’ll all whisper, saying this child has a claim, saying that it has royal blood, that it deserves something… more.”

Margaery rose from her seat, crossing the room to place a gentle hand on his arm. “And yet, my love,” she said, her voice a soft murmur, “this child will be nothing more than an infant, while you are already crowned, already commanding the loyalty of lords and bannermen. Tywin Lannister knows where the power lies, Joffrey. He has sworn loyalty to you.”

Joffrey glanced down at her, his expression softening just slightly as her words seemed to calm him, though the tension didn’t fully leave his face. “You’re right,” he muttered, though his voice still carried a note of doubt. “But Tywin is ambitious. And if he has a child with Targaryen blood, what’s to stop him from making some… claim for it?”

Margaery kept her hand on his arm, her touch reassuring. “Tywin may be ambitious, yes, but he is also practical. He knows it’s unwise to risk a confrontation with you. And as your queen, I will stand by you, ensuring no one challenges your right to the throne.”

Joffrey’s expression softened further, his gaze finally meeting hers. “You always know what to say, Margaery. You make it sound so… simple.” He paused, his eyes flickering with something almost vulnerable. “But I don’t trust them. Not my grandfather, not the Targaryen whore he’s married, and certainly not the child.”

Margaery offered a faint smile, though inwardly, she made a mental note to discuss this development with her grandmother Olenna. “Then we shall be vigilant together, my king,” she said soothingly. “And if that child ever becomes a threat, we will deal with it… quietly.”

Joffrey seemed to take comfort in her words, a sly smile creeping onto his face. “Yes… quietly. That’s how it should be. I knew I could count on you, Margaery. You have a way of… understanding these things.”

Margaery’s smile remained warm, though her thoughts were elsewhere. She would need to speak with Olenna as soon as possible, to ensure they were prepared for any shift in the court’s dynamics brought about by this unexpected addition to the Lannister family.

“Of course, my king,” she replied, her voice steady. “I am here to support you, always.”

In the cold light of dawn, Stannis Baratheon sat alone in his tent, reading over the crumpled parchment that his spies had delivered to him just the night before. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line, as he read the message again, the words seeming to smolder off the page with each reading.

Tywin Lannister’s Targaryen wife—the woman who should have been wiped out along with the rest of her kin—was with child. The blood of the dragon and the lion combined, an heir that, by the laws of inheritance, could lay a claim more legitimate than even Joffrey’s bastard lineage.

The tent’s entrance flap rustled, and Davos Seaworth stepped inside, his expression concerned as he took in the grim look on Stannis’s face.

“My lord,” Davos began, his voice low, respectful. “Is it true? The report… about Tywin’s wife?”

Stannis’s jaw tightened, his eyes cold and unyielding. “It’s true. Tywin’s Targaryen wife carries a child—a child that will carry both Targaryen and Lannister blood. There are some who might say that alone gives the whelp a stronger claim to the throne than anyone else.”

Davos frowned, concern deepening on his weathered face. “But… that’s impossible, my lord. The Targaryens were cast down. Your brother saw to that. The child has no true claim, no right to rule over you or anyone in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Stannis’s gaze turned icy, his voice laced with frustration. “Yet here we are, Davos. The whispers have already begun. And Tywin, with all his clever schemes, is bound to use this child to stir the minds of the lords, to make them doubt my own claim.”

Davos leaned forward, his voice earnest, pleading. “Then we should be cautious, my lord. Tywin Lannister has a way of twisting the truth, bending others to his will. If we react too rashly, we might play right into his hands.”

Stannis’s eyes burned with a fierce determination, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “Caution is weakness, Davos. I will not allow a child—a child of a tainted, dead bloodline that my brother tried to erase—to claim legitimacy over me. No child of the Mad King’s line will ever rule the Seven Kingdoms.”

There was a long, tense silence, and Davos could feel the chill in the air deepen as he realized the path Stannis’s mind was heading down. “What will you do, then?”

Stannis’s gaze shifted, growing colder, more resolute. “I will consult with Melisandre. She will have insight into this, into what this child means and how we can best… eliminate the threat.”

Davos’s heart sank, alarm flashing across his face. He took a step closer, his voice urgent. “My lord, please. Lady Melisandre’s methods are… not without consequence. Consulting her in matters of life and death—especially concerning an unborn child—may lead us down a dark path. One that may taint your honor.”

Stannis’s mouth tightened, his gaze hardening. “Honor does not win wars, Davos. And it does not secure thrones. If this child is born, it will be used as a symbol, a weapon against my rule. It will embolden Tywin’s allies, bolster support for a claim that should never exist. We cannot allow it.”

Davos held his gaze, desperation flickering in his eyes. “But, my lord, there is more to consider than just the claim. Killing an unborn child… it’s not justice, it’s vengeance. And vengeance will do nothing but erode the loyalty of those who follow you.”

Stannis looked away, jaw clenched, and he seemed to be struggling against something unseen. “I know the weight of my choices, Davos. But if we do nothing, we risk being overthrown before we even take King’s Landing. Tywin will not hesitate to use that child as a pawn, as a symbol of power that could rally the realm against us.”

Davos took a deep breath, his voice soft but firm. “I know you seek justice, my lord. And justice will come in time. But perhaps there is another way, one that does not require consulting with shadows or flames.”

Stannis’s face twisted, frustration and doubt warring within him. “I will speak to Melisandre,” he repeated, his voice like iron. “I will hear her counsel. Nothing more.”

Davos’s shoulders slumped slightly, but he did not give up. “Then at least allow me to be present, my lord. If nothing else, I can help temper her… enthusiasm.”

Stannis considered him, his gaze penetrating, and after a long moment, he gave a short nod. “Very well. But know this, Davos: my patience is running thin. I will not let a child born of treachery and deceit stand in the way of what I am owed.”

Davos felt the weight of Stannis’s resolve, and a chill ran through him, knowing how dangerous a path lay ahead. He could only hope that, in the end, there would be some way to save Stannis from the very shadows he sought to wield.

[kellysue]

Members of the cast of #FMLComix tell you how to pre-order #FMLComix.

FML #1 arrives in November 2024 with main cover art by David López and variant covers featuring artwork by Alvaro Martinez Bueno, David LaFuente, Nicola Scott (1:10 incentive variant), and Pepe Larraz (1:25 incentive variant). One additional variant cover will be revealed at a later date. Each issue will feature bonus material such as essays on music, true crime, interviews, and more that will be exclusive only to the single issues.

“David and I have been talking about doing something creator-owned together since Captain Marvel, but it took years for the stars and our schedules to properly align,” said DeConnick. “Now that we’re here though, it almost feels planned — like we needed exactly as long as it took us to grow and change, both as artists and as people, so that we could come back together for this big swing.

“FML is a challenging book — stylistically and in tone — and I’m not sure we could have pulled it off five years ago, honestly. But here we are—and I’m so proud of and impressed by the work put in by everyone involved. David is drawing like he’s got something to prove, Cris is pulling disparate styles together seamlessly, tying them together with her palette and Clayton of course, our ace and secret weapon, works his subtle magic on lettering to make sure you hear everything in your head exactly the way it was intended. McCubbin developed this terrific logo that evolves with each issue, and I don’t even know where to start with how supportive and inspiring Daniel Chabon’s editorial team has been. They’ve given us exactly what we needed at every step along the way.

“For my part, FML feels of a piece with Pretty Deadly and Bitch Planet; it’s as personal as the former and as satirical and of-the-moment as the latter.”

"This is without a doubt one of the best and most important books I have had the honor to edit in my fifteen years in the comic book industry,” added Senior Editor Daniel Chabon. “I have been a tremendous fan of this creative team for a long, long time; and I cannot wait for everyone to pick up this series and to see what an amazing achievement it is."

Riley is a 16-year-old heavy metal kid who draws down his anxiety with a ballpoint pen. His mother is an aging punk cartoonist slam dancing with a true crime obsession. Bound by threads of magical realism, they navigate the absurdities and horrors of our modern lives.

Issue one introduces Riley’s daily life: terrorism diaries, school shooter drills, and social pressures under the constant shadow of encroaching wildfires that rain ash like a morbid snow. His refuge? The Forest Park Witch’s House, where tales of chaos magic and trickster gods promise some semblance of sense in a senseless world.

Echoing the comedy of “Bottoms,” the nostalgic pull of “Stranger Things,” and the coming-of-age journey in “Stand By Me,” DeConnick’s first return to creator-owned comics since Bitch Planet is an apocalyptic odyssey that speaks to the resilience of the misfit and the power of art.

FML #1 (of 8) arrives in comic shops on November 6, 2024. It is now available to pre-order at your your local comic shop for $4.99.

Be sure to follow DarkHorseComics on social media and check our website, www.darkhorse.com for more news, announcements, and updates.

Praise Kelly Sue DeConnick and David López: “DeConnick has always combed top-notch lyrical text with a knack for bringing out the best in the artists she works with.”—Polygon

“Kelly Sue DeConnick either writes with a King Midas pen, is one of the few remaining wizards in the world, or, most likely, is just that damn good because Bitch Planet is yet another amazing series with her name on the cover.”—Word on the Nerd

“Pretty Deadly pushes at the limits of medium, challenging our ideas of what comics can be.”—IGN

“Kelly Sue DeConnick’s Wonder Woman Historia: The Amazons may just be the best thing to come out of the Black Label line to date.”—IGN

“Kelly Sue DeConnick is a force in comics.”—Book Riot

“Kelly Sue DeConnick—a powerhouse in the comics world.”—Salon

“A primal scream in exquisitely worked gold.”—Polygon on Wonder Woman Historia: The Amazons

“López’s pencils are like a breath of fresh air. His style evokes a classic superhero aesthetic while still bringing subtle emotional vulnerability to these characters through strong storytelling and page design.”—Nerds Unchained on Captain Marvel (2014)

[blade-that-was-broken]

Soldier On

Getting that call felt like a nightmare.

Bruce owned a small resort on one of the islands in the state of Hawaii, running it with his wife, Brandy with their gaggle of kids roaming around. He was content where his life was and where he ended up. Good weather, great wife, a few kids. He didn't think he could want anything more. Well, granted, he wishes he had a better relationship with his brothers.

He left home practically the moment he turned eighteen. After his parent's divorce when he was about thirteen, things got difficult. They spent a lot of time with their grandmother and Bruce just could not wait to get out. His biggest regret was leaving his brothers behind with their mother. Their father had cut off all contact. Either that or their mother had. It didn't matter.

Floyd wrote letters but that was the majority of their contact. He started some kind of music career and seemed to be doing pretty well with himself.

Clay was in college, working on a Master's degree or something. Bruce wasn't entirely sure. Clay wasn't on speaking terms with him at all, feeling abandoned when Bruce fled the moment he could.

And Branch? Well, Bruce hadn't really heard from Branch since the youngest had moved in with Grandma. He'd have to be 16 or 17 now. Almost an adult. Almost ready to do whatever he wanted with his life. Bruce had no idea what that was.

And then there was John Dory, the forgotten one. He had been about fifteen when their parents divorced and their father took him in said divorce. They never heard from him again.

It was in the middle of the day when got the call. "Is this Bruce...."

"Yes?"

"This is LA Military Hospital. Are you related to a... John Dory?"

He hadn't heard that name in years.

Decades, even.

"He's... he's my brother."

"We haven't been able to find any contacts. We are glad to reach you. There is some news I have to tell you."

She had to tell him over the phone. Turned out, John had joined the military many years ago but recently had been severely injured in an explosion overseas. She didn't expand on the shape he was in but apparently soon he would be released and he had no where to go. Not that he would have argued but Brandy was with him when he was told and she told him to get him and bring him home immediately. She booked him a couple of tickets - one for him and the other for John - and told him to get him.

He wasn't sure if he had even mentioned John to her. He must have, right? Bruce had been thirteen the last time he saw JD. He didn't know what to expect.

He didn't expect to walk into a physical therapy center and having to ask which one of the severely injured men there was John Dory. He couldn't even recognize his own brother. He didn't expect to be shown the area and he didn't expect to see his brothers struggling to walk with only one leg. He didn't expect the all the bandages or the newly shaved head or the scar on his face.

"Sugar and cupcakes," John hissed in pain.

Oh yeah, that was JD.

The therapist he was with looked amused. "You have to be my only patient I have never heard swear."

"Force of habit, I guess... or nostalgia. Take your pick," John grunted.

"You must be pretty popular with parents."

"Their kids find it hilarious," John managed snarky grin. "Probably corrupted a few."

"You're doing great, John," the therapist smiled. "You are making a lot of progress."

"Maybe I should slow down then," he joked. "The sooner I can walk, the sooner I get kicked out on the streets."

"You don't have any family?"

"Tried finding them when I turned eighteen. Turns out, I'm no detective and finding cut off family can be harder than it looks."

"JD," Bruce called.

John's shoulders tensed. "I told you Mouth, not to call me that. Only my br..." he snapped, turning around. He paused and blinked, staring at Bruce.

"I know I look different than that 13-year old you used to know," Bruce started, awkwardly. "But uhm... the hospital found me? I guess? It's..."

"Bruce," John exhaled, staring at him.

"Yeah, JD," Bruce nodded. "It's me. Been a long time huh?"

[bellamby]

I saw Transformers One. I am so normal about it (SPOILERS AHEAD)

(Some OC doodles to hide the spoilers! If you have a cool name for her, lemme know ^^)

Honest Review: 9/10

I went in with high expectations and I was not disappointed. The best summary I can think of is that this movie is truly a love letter to the fans.

I could rant for days, but I'm gonna break it down into sections so I don't talk myself in circles ^^

Story:

The story focusing on how the war began was such a good move on the writers' part! It showed a version of Cybertron that I haven't really seen in other Transformers films, and the setting was incredibly explored.

When it comes to the origins of Cybertron and the whole "Primus/Unicron" battle, I think it was well explained considering the limited time they have in the movie.

Overall, a well-paced and actually interesting NON-HUMAN-FOCUSED story, but I will agree with others that I just wish the movie had more time to explain some things. That's basically my only complaint: the movie wasn't long enough 😭

Art:

The animation style is gorgeous, and really takes inspiration from that Retro/VHS style and colours and merges them with a shiny modern look. It took a good chunk of inspiration from the 80s vibes and I think that really showed how much care was put into it.

When it comes to the designs, I freaking LOVE the way we see them level up throughout the movie!

Characters:

Orion Pax/OP = I loved him. I will love him in every continuity, but this one especially, showing him with all his flaws and then how he rises above them for what he believes. His relationship with D-16 was so well built up, and to see it torn down so harshly as the movie went on was the level of brutal I was expecting.

The scene where he finally gets the Matrix of Leadership was SO well done. My hype for Solus Prime will never die.

D-16 = He needs a hug so badly. He's the classic tale of "Never meet your heroes". To see him shift from "I made peace with my misery, why did you have to ruin it?" To "I'm going to destroy the people who made me this way" was such a painful thing to watch. But I can't even be mad because this is literally what Megatron's whole story is about.

His origin will almost always come from a point of seeing injustice and wanting to rise against it, and they showed the lengths he'd go to really well here.

Elita One = MY QUEEN. I will follow this woman into battle any day of the week (and so would Shockwave). I feel like there was a point where she was mainly just regarded as "Orion/Optimus' GF", but they really separated her from that stereotype in this. She's not just "pink Orion Pax", she's a character in her own right.

Seeing Orion have to earn her respect helped show just why the two hold each other in high regard. I hope we get to see more of her as a Commander in the sequel!

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE = MY PRECIOUS BOY. Okay, there was a point in the trailer where I was really worried he was going to just be the comic relief character who makes a joke every time something serious is happening, but instead he's an awkward bot who means well. He doesn't always get it right, but he also doesn't actively mess things up for the group.

Bumblebee's wholesomeness was so well captured especially the part where he's like "Orion Orion! Watch me cut these guys in half!" While the guys in question are literally running away in fear. He's so cute, I can't. I am going to fight D-16 if he's actually the one who tears out his voicebox, I swear to Primus.

Can you tell who my favourite is? ^^

Favourite details:

- Starscream's high-pitched voice origin. The second he started sounding like that I was like "OHHHHH, MEGS DID THAT?!?!"

- "I'm...speechless" BEEEEE STAAAAWWP

- Alpha Trion's "ROAR" era.

- Sentinel's Death. I love that we can get away with gore in PG films when it comes to robots. Man literally got snapped in half like a KitKat, and the age rating people were like "...yeah, 5-year-olds can watch this"

- Origins of the Decepticon symbol being from Megatronus. Before, I just headcanonned Megs sitting over a desk with several balled up bits of paper trying to come up with a super cool symbol to show his Ex that he'd moved on (he hasn't)

- Chromia's little moment of rage when she won the Iacon 5000. Not enough people talk about Chromia, but I love how Ironhide matches her wild, slightly-unhinged energy.

Conclusion: Hasbro, more movie, please

I NEED to know where this goes. This movie is such a fresh change of pace from all the hesitation and back and forth in recent years. There have been so many different series and continuities starting up that it seems Hasbro is unsure of which one will stick, but this is my plea to them:

YOU HAVE STRUCK ENERGON, HERE, DO NOT WASTE IT

We're getting a sequel either way, but it's up to Hasbro whether that's written by them or by a hero on AO3 or Fanfiction.net

Thank you for coming to my TED talk. I have several nights of crying to do now.

[girlactionfigure]

The guard passed it on to her husband Kurt, but for decades the couple's youngest son, Frank, was unable to read the handwritten note.

Here, 75 years after the death camp was liberated, he tells Sky News how it felt to read the letter which is now on display to visitors at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum: 

My father, mother and older brother and I were sent to Auschwitz in December 1943.

A transport of around 5,000 inmates had arrived at the camp in September before us and we were part of the second batch of 5,000.

We had no idea why we were there.

We were kept in a Czech family camp which was a ploy by the Nazis to show the International Red Cross that Czech Jews were being well looked after.

At the time, we had no idea why the family camp was even established because most of the time, when children arrived at the Auschwitz railway station, they were almost immediately killed in the gas chambers.

The International Red Cross never inspected Auschwitz so the Nazis gassed and killed most of the September transport.

This was in the March and April of 1944.

Then a few months later, they decided to make a selection from the second group which my family and I were in.

We all lined up in front of notorious SS doctor Josef Mengele, nicknamed the Angel of Death, who selected who would live or die.

My brother John, who was four years older than me, was handicapped and he was chosen to die.

And, because I was less than 12 years old, I was also put on death row.

Vilma Grunwald with her sons John (left) and Frank (then known as Misa). Pic: United States Holocaust Memorial Museum

We were both standing in the line when one of the prisoners I had been working for as a messenger came over and quickly moved me into a group of older children.

He had saved my life.

But when my mother found out that John, who was 16, was going to be gassed, she decided to stay with him.

She could not bear the idea of him going into the gas chamber by himself.

About five days after the selection, she wrote a letter to my father, who had been moved to a medical camp because he was a physician.

She gave it to a guard and - despite the massive size of Auschwitz - he delivered it to my father.

There were between 30,000 and 40,000 guards in the camp and many of them were not SS.

Some of them were older military people in their 50s and 60s who had not been brainwashed by the Nazi regime.

The letter that Vilma Grunwald wrote to her husband before she died. Pic: United States Holocaust Memorial Museum

My mother, who was always a good judge of character, had picked the right person.

A few months later, Auschwitz was liberated, and I was reunited with my father - by this time I was in Austria and he was in Germany.

It was then he told me he had a letter from my mother, written to him shortly before she and my brother were taken on trucks to the gas chambers.

He told me it was a goodbye, a loving goodbye to him, and that my mother had wished him a good life.

I was only 12 years old at the time, so it was too painful to read and I pushed it to the back of my mind.

We lived in London for two years, and then moved to New York City in 1951.

My father practised medicine there and I went to the Pratt Institute and studied industrial design.

I didn't see the note until after my father died in 1967 and I was sorting out his possessions.

I had thought about it many times over the years and I was curious, but I knew it would be too depressing and upsetting to read.

Read More: Here

[existentialterror]

Light's ARG notes - Dear Evelyn

Dear Evelyn (spotify link) is a horror podcast with a few ARG elements! It's just coming out and it's really good. I know some of the people involved (though don't know anything else about the podcast itself) and really like the other podcast on their network, the Creepypasta Book Club. Check em out! There are also some ARG elements. (It looks like you can listen to the podcast without engaging with any of the ARG elements, at least for now, but it's early on and anyways I love an ARG.)

Under the cut I'm dropping a lot of spoiler notes on Episode 1 "introductions" and Episode 2 "The Attic", which is all that's out so far. Really just my notes on the characters and what we know about everything.

I'm taking a break for this in between working on the shorthand code, which... might take me a while. I know nothing about shorthand and never claimed to be good at codes in the first place. XD

Characters

The Payne family

Sparrow Payne - The voice of the show. Sending recordings to get back in touch with their younger sibling, Evelyn. Their father has just died and they've moved back to the old family house in Keen's Cross, Indiana.

Got emancipated at 16, hasn't been back since. Refers to themself as "the scary one" of the siblings.

Evelyn Payne - Sparrow's younger sister. Was more online at a younger age. Also left Keen's Cross early and has been estranged from everyone. Things are really tense with Sparrow, who doesn't even know their address, which Sparrow thinks is fair.

As a kiddo, really morbid and into scary stuff. Made up and was scared of "Gabe the Cave Monster".

On a post-it note on the wall of Evelyn's room, in her handwriting, is "Pale_Horse1392".

Pastor Roger Payne - Sparrow and Evelyn's dad, who recently died. Was always a hardass but really became a pious dick after his wife vanished.

Naomi Payne - Sparrow and Evelyn's mom, who went missing when Sparrow was - I forget but I want to say like 12 years old.

Into new age stuff, not as into the religious stuff, which was a point of conflict in her relationship with Roger.

Wrote extensive diaries.

Sparrow is pretty sure she's dead.

Other characters

Mrs. Rapperty (sp?): Next door neighbor, lives alone in big dirty house. Recluse. Now maybe has Alzheimer's or something. Said Naomi was so beautiful but that she lost the faith and left the kids - all of which was news to Sparrow. She seems to know something about Naomi.

Jake Petty: Gay kid that the kids knew when they were younger, stayed in Keen's Cross. Closer to Evelyn's age.

Officer Petty: Jake's dad. Cop.

Pastor Drayer (sp?): The new pastor. Was really curious about Evelyn at Roger's funeral, despite having never met either of the Payne kids.

The missing person case

According to news report at the end of "introductions", Naomi was: Reported as missing:

4 days after last seen

3 days after authorities were notified

Reported to outside authorities (like, police in another town) BY one of the kids hitchhiking to a nearby town. Guessing that's Sparrow, since Evelyn was very young.

Sparrow tried to get help and answers as a kid but doesn't seem to have known much.

Since she died, the entire case has been publicized and become infamous online, which Sparrow hates. A lot of stuff like Naomi's journals are digitally available.

Naomi's journals

Naomi wrote some every day, almost.

Some missing ones mentioned in "The Attic", including various years. The journals are indexed with letters.

Also lots of albums, almost all of the mom. Lots with the mom and some baby in places that don't look like Keen's Cross, which is confusing to Sparrow.

A lot of the diaries were made public but not these ones Sparrow just found in the attic.

Sparrow mentions one specific entry - 1992 (May 18) - Talking about Mt St Helens erupting, on its anniversary. Naomi tried to get others to leave town - something bad is happening here too.

An excerpt of one of the diaries, written in shorthand, was shared with the episode description. I'm still trying to figure out what it says.

The Payne House

Dad left the kid's rooms mostly untouched since they moved out.

Bunch of stuff in the attic that is padlocked shut. Wild!

As of "The Attic", at Evelyn's suggestion, Sparrow found the key taped to the underside of Dad's night stand.

The attic contained a bunch of Naomi's things and diaries, mostly untouched in interceding years. Unclear how much of this, if any, the police ever saw. There are sections of the diaries - like in shorthand - that definitely never appeared online, and that Sparrow never saw before.

pale_Horse1392

Right, so in the description of "introductions", there's a link to this image:

The QR code goes to this youtube channel, which contains (at time of writing) only this cryptic video.

So I'm thinking pale_horse1392 is either Evelyn, or someone Evelyn was in contact with as a young person.

Riddle

If you click on the drawing of Gabe the Cave Monster in the episode 2 notes, there's a link to a riddle. I also have not figured out the riddle.

[sealz888]

Gage for the ask me anything! If you don’t do DLC characters then Nick Valentine please and Butch from FO3❤️

Thank you for requests! Another Anon sent me an ask with 2/3 of the characters and with Old Long Fellow so I'll post that soon for them. In the meanwhile, please enjoy. CW for Butch: Child abuse. Triggering content below the cut.

Nick Valentine

Ever since he was a young boy he's had a knack for investigating.

First got into introduction to it was family game night, where they had one of those fake investigation game thingies. He got it pretty fast, much to his families dismay. They got some more, and he only got better.

Started to watch detective and crime shows and movies and he'd often pick up on the culprit quickly. Listened to true crime radio shows too.

When he was 16, his neighbour hired to him to investigate if her husband was cheating on him. He found out and got photo evidence. The husband was cheating and he got paid handsomely for finding out.

Frequently corresponds with DiMA,  exchanging letters and parcels. He tries to visit at least once a year. DiMA still tries to convince him to stay. 

One time while they were staying, DiMA found  one of those investigation games. A whole bunch of Synthes and DiMA tried to figure it out, Nick sat there watching and helping whenever he could. He ending up bringing it back to the Commonwealth with him.

Pre-War Nick was pretty close with Jennifer's nephew, becoming an uncle figure. There bond only got got stronger after Jenny got murdered. Nick and Little Shaun now share this bond.

His internal fans speed up and get really loud when he's flustered of caught of guard. If it's really quiet and you get up nice and close you could almost hear a mechanical heartbeat.

Porter Gage

I haven't played or watched too much on Nuka-world, so forgive me if I have anything off.

Gouged out his own eye. He was dared to prove his courage, loyalty and balls.

His brother is Red-eye. They were both adopted into the same raider family. They also have sister and another younger brother who were birthed into the ranks. The Sister and brother died in one of the raids, but Red Eye and Gage made it to Nuka World.

Doesn't like the taste of Nuka-Cola, drinking it so much as made him miserable. He's so tired of using it to marinade meat. He's so tired of the same fizzy texture. He's so tired of the taste, the colour, everything.

Tends to help out with agriculture and farming considering his roots.

Is debating betraying the SoSu considering their status with the Minutemen, dissatisfied at the recent information. He's also planning a full scale invasion of the Commonwealth.

He also wanted Nuka World too himself as well, so he has Red-Eye spy on SoSu.

Butch DeLoria

Content Warnings for Child Abuse the cut.

His dad ran off to Vegas. Growing up his mother would warn him about gambling, Chems and alcohol. Also bares a striking resemblance to his father, his mother resents him for it.

When he was a young child, he'd often ""run away"" from their room and ask to sleep for the night. He'd end up frequently having sleep overs with other kids and spend more time at theirs than his'.

Was really hoping to get a mechanic on the G.O.A.T and absolutely hated being a barber at first. However, he really like doing his hair and got really good it, so he excelled in his training much to his dismay.

Opened his own barber shop in Rivet City and people from all over, and I mean all over come to see him and to get a haircut. His skills are insane.

Listens to a lot of Elvis and can do a few of his dance moves.

Big comic book nerd despite bullying a lot of kids in the vault about comics. He's a grognak kinda guy I reckon.

Helps MacCready out too and knew him as a kid. He often visits little Duncan and brings him lollies, sweets, sodas and comics. He'll read Duncan the letters MacCready sends him in silly voices to get him to laugh.

Big ol' softie, wants a wife and to settle down in a family but his past experiences and absent father makes him second guess himself. He has a dog though.

He got counselling from James to deal with his trauma. Also apologised to the LW and Amata too.

Happy to leave the vault and never come back!

Continued below cut

He'd run to the guards and overseer and tell them about everything, most of the guards wanted to help him and would let him stay around them. They did everything in their power to get him help.

but when the overseer confronted his mother about she denied everything and said that he was lying.

He was not. Could you hear it.

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 ao3

Eddie finds Wayne outside, round the back of the hotel. He’s sat on a little bench next to a trellis doing another damn crossword, the newspaper folded across his knees; and it’s almost funny, how he so easily seems to find peace and solitude during the impossible. But then Eddie remembers unplanned nights at the trailer from years ago, seeking refuge from raised voices and smashed bottles—and figures that Wayne’s always been good at carving out quiet moments amongst chaos.

Wayne looks up when Eddie sits down on the bench, too, appraises him thoughtfully.

“You’re looking better.”

“Well, damn, Wayne,” Eddie says, “was I ugly before or something?”

Wayne raises his eyes to the heavens, but he can’t hide the tiny smile tugging at his lips—and, God, Eddie thinks, he’s never taking this for granted again. Lately they’d gotten too used to passing like ships in the night—they had a vague plan to order takeout, watch T.V on one of Wayne’s rare days off, but then Chrissy…

“Steve doing good?” Wayne asks shrewdly, and Eddie nods, says that he’s heading to his house to pick up some of his stuff.

Wayne reaches into his back pocket, brings out his car keys and tosses them to Eddie. He jerks his thumb to the hotel parking lot.

“I’m parked near the front, just bring it back whenever you’re done.” He eyes Eddie, a little grave. “You just take care, all right? Don’t stop for no-one.”

Eddie nods again. Pushes back a tight knot of anxiety. “I won’t. Hey, uh… how long do we, you know,” he glances at the hotel building, “have here?”

Wayne follows his gaze. “Well, they’ve not asked me for my credit card yet,” he says, entirely straight-faced, and when Eddie just huffs a small laugh, he adds, “Government’s stepping in to re-house folks. Heard some of the trailers aren’t too damaged, so…”

Eddie puts two and two together. “People are moving back?”

“Some of ‘em,” Wayne confirms mildly. “The park still needs more work, reckon it’ll be months, at least, before it starts looking like—”

“I don’t think I can do it,” Eddie blurts out. “Go—go back, I mean.”

It’s painful to admit, that he wants to run from the one place that used to make him feel safe. But he can’t hide from it, how the horror is pervasive: how he thinks of Chrissy in the living room, and Steve’s missing tape in his bedroom, and him sinking to the ground in the trailer park, despairing, a lifeless Steve in his arms.

“All right,” Wayne says, like it’s simple.

Eddie bites his lip. “But. Wayne. It’s… it’s your home, too.”

Wayne sighs but not unkindly. He ruffles Eddie’s hair. “We’ll figure it out, Eddie,” and it sounds like he’s saying, You know full well that’s not really where ‘home’ is.

Eddie smiles. Blinks and looks away to wipe his nose with the back of his hand. When he stands up, he takes a peek at the crossword, tuts and says, “Come on, old man, you’re getting slow.”

“You’re a damn menace, that’s what you are.”

“Six across, four letters,” Eddie continues, sing-song, “All you need, to the Beatles.”

“I hadn’t got round to—”

Eddie twirls the car keys round his finger, does a stupid little spin as he leaves, just because he can. “Love!” he exclaims, hand on his heart, and Wayne chuckles.

-

He goes the extra mile in being cautious, takes backroads that he knows will be quiet, makes himself as small as possible in the driver’s seat. The town still feels ghostly, and the very occasional people he does drive by on the sidewalk don’t appear to really notice him, and he doesn’t quite know how to feel about it.

When he pulls up into Steve’s driveway, he glances in the rear-view mirror and sees another car crawling past—like it’s surveying rather than stopping. Then he realises that it’s Nancy who’s driving.

He sounds his horn as quietly as he can, and she starts, waves at him with a significant delay. She gets out, meets him at the front door.

“It’s empty, Jonathan took them all on a grocery store run,” Nancy says. Her voice is too level, like she’s putting all her effort into keeping it like that. “The spare key’s here.” She lifts up the door mat and bends down to pick up the key.

There’s mud all over her boots. Eddie only needs one look to know that it’s from the trailer park.

He kind of wants to hug her, honestly, but he doesn’t know yet what she really needs.

He lifts up the bag he’d brought. “Thought I’d do some laundry,” he says lightly, just to break the silence.

Nancy regards the bag with something like relief, and she takes it from him. “I can start a load,” she says, and then she opens the door and stops, right there in the hallway.

Eddie doesn’t blame her. With the house empty, their footsteps seem overly loud. There’s nothing to distract him from remembering the last time he was here, watching Steve’s forced normality. The clinking of bottles, back to the kids. His voice echoing eerily off the ceiling. You guys trust me, right?

Eddie gives himself a shake, heads for the stairs. “I’m just gonna—Steve wanted some clothes picked up, so…”

He trails off in invitation, looking over his shoulder.

But Nancy stays right where she is. She looks up to the top of the stairs then rapidly pales, a hand reaching out to steady herself against the wall. There’s a faint thump as she drops the bag onto the floor.

“Woah, woah.” Eddie hurries back, grabs her by the elbow. “You okay? You wanna sit down?”

Nancy shakes her head, screws her eyes shut for a moment. “No, I’m—I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Eddie says, uncertain.

She grips Eddie’s arm, breathes. Lets go and raises her head. “Yeah, I’m… I just need.” She picks up the bag again, straightens. “Just need to not—not think for a bit.”

Eddie releases his hold on her slowly, steps back when she doesn’t sway again.

“Yeah, I get that,” he says softly.

She reaches for a door to the left, before the kitchen. “Laundry room’s in here,” she says. Then, matter-of-fact, adds, “See you once you’ve got his things?”

Eddie nods but stays put. “Shout if you need me?”

Nancy softens. “Sure.”

-

In the end, Eddie’s almost glad that he heads to Steve’s bedroom alone, because he ends up freezing in the doorway for almost a full minute.

There’s more ghost-like memories in here. One of Steve’s drawers has been pulled fully out, left on the floor, and it’s like Eddie can hear Erica and Lucas scrabbling, throwing things out in their search for the tape.

Then he thinks of Dustin, his voice cracking; hearing him in the midst of asking, incredulous, “—not even going to look at me?”

Dustin’s furious, watery eyes flash through his mind, as does I hate you, and Steve turning his back, hiding as one tear falls down his cheek—

Enough.

Eddie takes a deep breath. Once he finally crosses the threshold, it’s easier—he does his best not to stop. He focuses on finding clothes that are loose and soft, easier for Steve to put on over a cast. It’s endearing, to see wrinkled t-shirts in the closet, placed close to hand, clearly worn and familiar and comforting.

He has to reach for the drawer on the floor anyway, picks a couple of sweaters in case Steve gets cold. And maybe it’s silly, but his hand lingers on the wooden surface as he does so, touching the impression of where Steve’s hand had been; as if he can somehow reach into the past and keep him safe.

He skims the bookshelf with interest, prompted by Steve’s suggestion. The majority of it is made up of old children’s books—twee collections of Winnie The Pooh and Beatrix Potter which make him smile. Then there’s a volume of poetry that catches his eye, simply because it’s been left crooked on the shelf, like Steve had recently been reading it, before distractedly putting it back.

Eddie picks it up, puts it on top of his little bundle of clothes and takes it with him.

- Nancy’s sitting on a beanbag in the laundry room, watching the washing machine whir, eyes unfocused. The beanbag is a garish red, at odds with the rest of the furniture in the house, marking it as a ‘Steve purchase.’

The washing machine beeps when it’s done; Eddie puts his clothes in the dryer, remembering Steve’s words and slamming the door shut. Nancy jumps in her seat.

“Sorry,” Eddie says.

She exhales. “It’s fine.”

It’s then that Eddie notices she’s taken her boots off; there’s dried blood on her socks. He recalls Wayne saying she looked like she’d been at the trailer park for hours; and he wonders just how far she has walked.

But before he can even tentatively ask, Nancy speaks first.

“I’m—it wasn’t you, I just. I can’t go in his room.” Her voice is thick. “You know, Barb… Barb’s parents, they kept her room ex-exactly like it…” She laughs sadly. “I couldn’t stop thinking that she’d just walk through the door.”

Eddie got an inkling that the disappearance of Barbara Holland was Upside Down related when Nancy came out of her Vecna trance, trembling in Steve’s arms. Before they’d scaled the rope, he’d overheard her whisper, tearful, “He showed me Barb.” Caught when Steve made a soft noise like he’d been punched: “Oh, Nance.”

Now Eddie watches Nancy glance upwards, blinking rapidly, and knows that Barb can never come home.

“I just couldn’t…” Nancy sucks in a sharp breath. “Couldn’t go in there, not when—when he’s not here, this place feels like a fucking museum.”

“He’s coming home,” Eddie says. “He’s gonna be okay.”

Nancy nods slowly. She curls further into the beanbag, wincing as she moves her feet.

They don’t speak for a short while, the dryer churning in the background. Eddie finds a handheld brush in a cupboard, picks up Nancy’s boots.

“Scooch,” he says gently, and they share the beanbag.

Little by little, Eddie scrubs the mud off Nancy’s boots. It’s dried and caked on in places, obviously fresh in others.

His uncle’s voice in his head again: I think she was waiting for something to happen, too.

“Hey, Wheeler?” Eddie says, almost a whisper. “You don’t need to, uh… keep checking, you know?”

Nancy doesn’t look at him.

He thinks of her freezing at the trailer park, clutching a coffee Wayne brought her, stuck waiting, and it breaks his heart.

“Don’t go back there,” he says.

She sighs like she can’t promise that.

Eddie gathers himself. “Fine, here’s the deal.” He waits until she turns to him, expectant. “If—if you need to… don’t go back there alone, okay?”

She blinks those eyes that have seen far too much. “How?”

“I’ll go with you,” Eddie vows.

She doesn’t say anything. But she leans into him, their shoulders pressed together, and that’s all the answer he needs.

-

“Why’d you bring so much?” Steve says with amusement when Eddie shows him the bundle of clothes.

“So you’ve got options! I don’t know how you style yourself, Harrington.”

“Whatever brings out my eyes,” Steve says, deadpan.

“I thought you said your hair was your ‘best feature.’”

“Thanks for the air quotes, man, appreciate it.” Steve actually bats his eyelids. Idiot, Eddie thinks fondly. “Why’re you limiting me to only one best feature?”

“Wow. Think all that hair just hides your big head.”

Steve flips him off—correctly this time. “Pot, meet kettle,” he echoes, and laughs when Eddie throws a sweater in his face.

-

Steve catches him reading the poetry book over dinner. “You can, like, doodle in it or whatever, if you want.” He shrugs. “I’m not precious with it.”

Eddie reaches for a pen, but only to add a tongue-in-cheek note for Steve to find on the title page, signs and dates it: When it was discovered by Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson that Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington had hidden depths.

It’s an anthology, so Eddie flips through it out of order, settling on random pages on a whim. Then several markings in pencil catch his eye.

He pauses. He vaguely recognises this poem from English. Steve has underlined the very end.

I was much too far out all my life  And not waving but drowning.

Eddie stays on that page for a long time—thinks of Chrissy, how he’d only ever remembered her as smiling before she sat in front of him in the woods, picking the skin around her fingers.

Pictures Steve, his inexplicably tender smile in the RV. This bit really isn’t so bad, Eddie.

Steve clicks his fingers, burnt lasagne mid-way to his mouth. “Hey, where’d you go?”

Eddie starts, turns the page. “Oh, nowhere.”

He shuts the book.

[plasma-studios]

On Mercy Chapter 16: despite the forgotten - old friendships

Ink recognises XSans. Surprising, seeing as the last time he saw him was centuries ago. Wait, that can't be right.

OR: History doesn't just repeat. It haunts.

It was laughable. All those decades searching, and after he’d given up, the answer was staring him in the face. Twice he thought there were no survivors. Twice he had failed to find them. Twice he had failed his friends— or, his once-friends. It felt presumptuous to call upon a centuries-dead friendship. 

Ink had his head in his hands. 

He didn’t know if Dream had caught onto anything. Dream had left the room, perhaps retreating, so he couldn’t gauge it. He had no idea how he’d reacted when he first realised who it was taking up space on the bed. He had no idea if Dream had realised he was still hiding things from him. 

He ought to feel more guilt at that, but he couldn’t look away from XSans’ face. Because it was XSans. Even if he went by Cross now, it was undeniably XSans. 

He’d thought his face had fallen through the cracks in his memory; some memories of Nightmare were already blurry, clotted with time and space. And he had met XSans centuries before, long before Dream or Nightmare were ever Princes. But he knew him the moment he saw him.

Just leave me be. Those had been XSans’ last words to him, all those centuries ago. He could not forget that. Ink, with nothing he could do to help him, and XSans, the boy who had lost everything because of him. Just let me die. And that was the strange part. How was he still alive? He should’ve long passed. And yet, the boy sleeping before him was undeniably alive; his soul trudging along, however quietly.

Was he also immortal? He could not lived until today otherwise. But he had been mortal, back then. You could not make someone mortal immortal. Unless this was XGaster’s doing? 

He let out a sharp exhale.

If XSans had not survived, then he had to have returned. And if he had returned, perhaps the others had. 

He knew XGaster had returned a few decades ago, perhaps a century— but he’d been without form. Struggling to manifest, and he never had. Ink had made sure of it. 

And that had been the only time his spirit had been conscious in all the time he had gone back to XLand just to make sure. He’d made so many visits to XLand even during Dream’s Princehood if only to keep his spirit in check. It had become an obsession, almost; had it not been for Error, he probably would have lost himself in his fear that XGaster would return. (He’d wanted to run when he’d read Nim’s letter, hadn’t he? Wanted to return to the fragile existence he’d carved out for himself with Error, wanted to leave them to their own devices, but he hadn’t wanted to betray the last wish of his first friend-mentor. And fear had been in everything, those first few years. How much of it was fear that the twins would turn out no different than XGaster under his tutelage? Hadn’t that kept him up for weeks at a time, trying to understand— If the twins had been alive and XGaster as good as dead could he dare to hope—)

XGaster’s return hadn’t surprised him much. After all, XGaster’s power made him the closest thing to immortal among his own family. 

Even if his power had consumed him in the end. 

But XGaster had still been born with his power. XSans had been solidly mortal. Even if XGaster had returned, there was nothing that meant the family would return with him. 

And yet, they had to have. He must’ve missed them. The first time when they had all been dead, XSans the last to die— he’d thought that there were no survivors. Now, the second time, they must have returned in some capacity. If XSans had returned with him, it was likely they all returned. So twice he had failed them. The second time, he had not even known they had come back. 

How long ago had that been? 

Without realising, he had gotten to his feet.

He had to think about it for a long time. Tear off the tail ends of memories, quietly think of how each moment transitioned into each other; yes, however murky, the timeline was there. It couldn’t have been more than a century ago, though anything related to XGaster felt like an immortal's lifetime ago. 

If XSans had returned with XGaster, and was still mortal, it made sense for him to still be alive. Not much time had since passed to wear his mortal lifetime down. XGaster must have done something; had he rewrote reality again, brought the dead back to life? He had done it so many times before, in the last couple cycles when Ink could no longer withstand his own aversion. 

Who was it that had been removed? XUndyne? Or had it been XChara? The names were blending together, faces he remembered but could not distinguish. 

It did not matter to XGaster, anyway. They had been brought back in the next cycle without any grief at all. 

Had he missed something? Had XGaster indeed returned in full, found himself a body but since lost it? That would explain it. 

Unfortunately, that spun a truth he didn’t want to face. 

XGaster could not be allowed to return.

If XGaster had truly returned, formed tangibly however temporarily, and brought back everyone else; what of the others? He should’ve come across them by now. But there had been nothing but XGaster’s fragile spirit left in that empty castle. Something must have happened. He could remember, at least in part, XFrisk’s drive and XChara’s ingenuity. If they had returned with XGaster, they would have made themselves known by now, wouldn't they?

If XGaster had been reduced to a spirit, and the two children gone alongside the rest with XSans— no, Cross, ending up in Nightmare’s service (if it were not for Nightmare, Ink would have found him decades ago) had he been the only survivor, yet again?

He was late. 

He could still leave, some tired voice said in his head. Even Dream could not stop him, and he probably wouldn’t be surprised. It wouldn’t be the first time Ink had taken flight. Error was always the voice in his ear pushing him to let go. He wouldn’t object.

But Ink did not want to forget. How many times had they argued about it? When the twins had been teenage Princes, it was Error that called him back to the Palace so many times. You’re stuck in the past. God, that had stung. And it had hurt even more coming from Error; he never lied, least of all to him. 

And it had been true. Error had been right. Ink had become almost obsessive with the fear that history would repeat, the longer he spent with the twins. He’d gone back to XLand every six months, then every three, then every month, then biweekly, then— even earlier, Dream’s outburst had been the nail in the coffin of an I told you so from the Destroyer that wasn’t even in the room. 

He could feel the old fear returning, much to his chagrin. 

He’d seen XGaster's obsession spiral out of control, but he hadn’t done anything. He’d let himself be dismissed, and then he himself dismissed his own fragile concerns. How could it have been wrong to be by his friend’s side as he learnt to realise his potential? 

Was that not what Nim had done for him, taken him under his wing and let him flourish into something better? 

After all, XGaster had been the closest thing to a friend of his own before Error. 

He had seen the signs. And he’d dismissed them. No, worse. He’d encouraged them. Had he never spoken to him, never learnt of his power— perhaps XGaster would have died wholly mortal, without knowledge of his own power, without his descent into madness and near-immortality.

He should’ve never spoken to him. Never deigned to know him. 

That way, XGaster would never have learnt this sort of unquenching hunger for purpose. It had been Ink’s bane for the longest time, and it had become his as well. 

How could he have missed it? Decades of searching, only to be this late. He was always late to realise, wasn’t he? He hadn’t recognised XGaster’s passion melting into insanity. He had been so foolish. He had fueled the fire, given XGaster reasons to keep his ambition burning with his larger than life stories, and by the time Ink had wanted to step away, the fire was burning well on its own. 

He stepped away, but he never stepped in. All for fear that he would lose the only friend he had left.

He squeezed his eyes shut. But he couldn’t step away. His first mistake had been to stay. Had he stayed out of it, had he not encouraged XGaster’s delusions of grandeur, maybe things would’ve turned out differently.  

Then he left. His second mistake. Now, he had nothing to show for the centuries but regret. 

The door creaked open again. 

He opened his eyes.

“I thought you’d still be here.” Dream was hovering in the doorway.

Ink smiled, though he could not find it in himself to make it look genuine. “I checked his soul. Proximity won’t hurt him.”

“Mhm.” He didn’t move. In the doorway, his edges illuminated by the light; Ink let out a small breath. “So what now?”

His smile faltered. He could feel it slipping away, the fragile mask breaking apart under the strain of Dream’s ask. Yes, he was an immortal in his own right, now. He shouldn’t begrudge him what he had caught onto by himself.

“Do you know how Cross got to Nightmare?”

Dream’s mouth pressed together as he thought about it. His answer, a resounding no, was to be expected.

“I think,” Ink said softly, as if that would alleviate the weight of the words he was speaking into existence, “That he has history with another immortal. Well, someone adjacent, anyway.”

Dream’s features drew together. “Who?”

The name dropped from his lips like a curse. And, of course, Dream did not recognise the name. XGaster had been long gone by the time of his birth.

(You should’ve left XGaster. And you should’ve never left Dream.)

He ought to say more, but he couldn’t find the words. He stewed in his own quiet, trying to word his own failures in a manner that would not be—

He waited for Dream to push. 

He didn’t.

He simply looked at him with a soft tiredness, and said, “Will Cross live?”

Ink looked at him, and simply said, “He’s alive. But slowly dying. You know that, don’t you?”

The look that crossed Dream’s face— if he was not so consumed by his own thoughts, he would’ve spent more time on it. Had Dream indeed grown to care for Cross? Or was it guilt?

“Then we keep healing him. I still need him, he can’t die yet.”

“Dream,” He said softly, and the shift in Dream’s gaze made him want to retract it. But it was the truth, and he had hidden it from him long enough that Dream no longer sought it from him. “He’s dying. Even if you feed him all the elixirs and cast all the healing spells in the world, everything seeping out of his soul— it’s his self. That sort of wound in a soul leaks. He’ll be losing himself by the day, if not the minute. He is.”

“Error can stitch his soul back together.” 

That was so bold a statement, it almost made him laugh. Yes, that was the unfiltered Dream he knew, wanting for outcomes and any options there were to save the people he wanted to save.

He had never seen Error use his strings to fix, only to destroy. But memories of sapphire threads pulling a brush closer for his convenience, subtle brushes against his skin; was it a possibility? Was XSans— Cross not all-together doomed?

Dream reached out, and gently touched Cross’ cheek. He caught Ink’s gaze.

“I still need him,” He mumbled. “He’s our only source of information about Nightmare.”

Ink thought of the mission he’d sent Error on, and said nothing. He would be arriving soon enough.

“Wake him up.” 

Dream let go of him, but didn’t turn to fully face Ink. “He needs to rest, doesn’t he? He's barely hanging on. You said it yourself. He needs to recover.”

“He can’t.” He smiled ruefully. “Not with a rip in his soul. If he’s conscious, he’ll be pulling back at what he’s losing rather than passively letting it all leave him. Remember who he is for a little longer. That’s what you want, right? Not his life, but his information. That’ll give you enough time to squeeze it out of him.” 

Dream was still hesitating. He evidently didn’t want to make it worse, but Cross was already dying anyway. If Dream did nothing, he would still die. 

But there was little reasoning that could quell fear. The only thing one could do was work through the consequences.

Dream relented in the next moment, and touched Cross’ temple. The seconds trickled past like the current of a river, and the sound of his tepid breaths came in the same rhythm as the sound of trickling water. 

His eyes did not move from Cross, the glow of his gaze cascading over him. 

“I don’t think he’s waiting up,” He finally said. But he did not retract his hand.

“Wait.” 

Dream waited.

Minutes passed, heavy and drawn-out, broken by the shallow rhythm of Cross’s laboured breathing. Neither spoke, and neither moved.

And then, slowly, so slowly it was almost imperceptible, his shallow breaths broke the rhythm. A deeper breath, as if a soft gasp. 

“Cross?”

A faint stir, a twitch of his fingers, then the softest murmur; his eyelids fluttered again. A quiet groan left him. Dream let go of him as if burned, and Ink felt his chest seize as XSans— Cross opened his eyes.

[gamebunny-advance]

Overlays + Logo Experiments 2023 (Kuneho sa Kahon)

This is some old work that I did last year.

I'm not gonna call this stuff "scrapped," because I may still use them someday, it's just that I don't know if or when I'm gonna start streaming again.

I forgot how long ago I actually made these, but I do know that it was during a time when I actually sucked it up and sat down with Inkscape for a while. I've probably forgotten everything I learned since then, but I remember it not being as difficult as I thought it was going to be, so picking it back up again probably won't take too long.

Anyway, the actual notes...

I made 2 versions of the "Game" overlay, 16:9 and 4:3 to accommodate more gaming eras (the games shown are just placeholders). I'd like to have a dual screen overlay too, but it might have to be less "showy" to give the game enough room to actually be seen.~

It's mostly inspired by things like the Windows XP music player, just pinkified to match Kun3h0's aesthetic.

The message box is of course lightly tamagotchi inspired and is supposed to match with Kun3h0's GAB. (Well actually, I designed these overlays first, so it's the GAB that takes after the overlay, even using the same background image for her tummy screen).

There isn't a proper overlay for art streams yet. I'm always accidentally grabbing the edges of my workspace and resizing it, so I don't think a boxed overlay would work that well for it. Maybe just a border and a place to put the alerts would be fine, but I don't really have any ideas for it~

They aren't quite "finished" yet. There are supposed to be icons in the trio of hot pink buttons, but my placeholder ideas for them didn't look great.

(Icons originally from Icons8)

The idea was to bring in some more of that tamagotchi influence by having "care icons" that would allude to some of the features of Kun3h0's game, but I just don't think the icons I chose really work. Plus, I think they're just busy. I should probably just throw some hearts in there and call it a day~

Next are the logos. I actually really like the first one, but it's a little hard to work with.

All the empty space above the title next to the ears creates, well, an empty space when the logo is at the top edge of anything. It's just very ugly to me, but there's not much I could think to do about it.

So, I made the next iteration. It's a lot more rectangular, so it's easier to place in scenes, but I think the layering of the letters is a little off. I love the idea for it, but it's just short of being great. With a few more tweaks, I think it could really work.

But you know, I feel like the problem that almost all my logos have is that they're all bulky. There are just a lot of words in there since I include the English translation, but I figure that maybe I might be able to just condense everything into a single icon: like maybe the GAB Micro is enough of a symbol on its own to work? Maybe throw a couple of K's onto the screen, but otherwise I don't think I actually need much more than that. So, maybe I'll work on something like that soon.

The last thing is just some vector art tests I did. I tried remaking this faux vector art from a while ago. It was just a way to try and get used to the program. I also tried to remake my pictogram 1010s, to varying success.

[whoblewboobear]

Hiiii!!! 📓

Hellooo hiii~ and OUGHHH Thank u 🥰 

So I pretty much rapid fire throw all my lil fic blurbs that I’ll probably never write on here but one of them that hasn’t entirely gotten its own spotlight is Porter’s backstory/character study. It’s mainly in bits and pieces but I’ve thought about it ALOT. I’ve rattled man around my brain for so long to figure out WHY he’s like that. Sooo I’m gonna scream about what I think his deal is for a lil bit~ A lot a bit actually lmao so it’s going under a read more 🤧✌️

~ The minute Porter was born his parents chose war over him. Handed him off to his grandparents the moment they’d both be able to go straight back into battle to defend the sunstone clan. He was left with his Paternal grandparents where they pretty much raised him like a soldier. He was homeschooled and along side his regular lessons like Common and Math, a lot of history lessons came from his grandfather who was a big war guy. He loaded Porter up on so many texts about wars that have passed, tactics each army used, etc. This is where Porter’s love for history comes in. 

He also learned cooking from his grandma and a little bit of sewing because she believed martial classes should always have their own form of mending in their back pocket. “There wont always be a caster around to do the small stuff.” Porter disagrees heavily in present day. He can sew and it’s a skill he kept up with but he almost exclusively dates casters that don’t mind using a quick mending on some of his things. 

(Jace sees this, realizes this, and then punches Porter so hard in the arm when he finds him sewing a pair of his pants bc “you ask me to mend your clothes all the time! You can sew?!” Jace doesn’t mind but he does give Porter shit about it from now on. But enough about Jace. For once this ain’t about him 😗✌️) 

Porter was definitely way closer to his grandma. She taught him everything she knew about divinity. Very very devout woman. She 100% believed in Ankarna as a goddess of Justice because she thought what the clan was doing WAS justice. With Porter’s grandfather, he makes it very clear during sparring and fighting practice that their goddess is weak and needs to be changed for the better and that Porter could be the one to do it. He has that drilled into him from such an early age too. Like imagine little 12 year old Porter being told “you’ll be the next champion, you will take back what we deserve.” It’s a lot of pressure. The war ended some years ago, but his parents died for this cause. He owes it to them to at least try. 

His clan is mostly in hiding. Somewhere high up in the mountains of chaos. I like to imagine that it’s the Cliffbreakers and a few other giantkin that found a home there. It’s prominent enough but secluded enough that adventurers pass through every now and then to trade or get in a long rest for the night. Porter loves sneaking out and watching them. He’s never seen so many different kinds of interesting and well traveled people before. By the time he’s 16 he’s a little tired of his training. There hasn’t been a war in quite sometime. Adventuring is where the battle is. 

One night the rogue of a visiting party has spied him watching the last few nights and offers for Porter to join. So he does and he likes the conversation and their stories. Their bard sing folk songs that are so new and different from the ones his grandmother used to sing him to sleep with. This is new and exciting and when the party offers for him to join he jumps at the chance. He leaves a letter, steals his dad’s old war hammer, and heads off with them just as dawn is breaking. 

He stays with that party into his late teens. He’s maybe 19 by the time the party raises concerns with their cleric’s closeness to Porter. Truly a fucking scumbag that was pursuing him when they definitely shouldn’t have been. Porter doesn’t see the issue, he’s confused why everyone is fighting about it or why the first person he’s ever been interested in, maybe even loved is being ousted from the group. They sit him down and explain the nuance but he’s a little too young and a little too angry to understand. So he leaves. 

Porter cycles through about 6 other adventuring parties, being messy the entire time too bc he absolutely does date at least one person from every new party he joins. He doesn’t mean to it just sorta happens 🤭 he’s partial to mages. He’s so fascinated by the concept of magic. Sure he’s still in touch with his faith and the little magic he can do because of it is nice but it’s not raw unadulterated power. 

By the time he’s maybe 36 he’s with a been with a sorcerer woman for about 3 years, he’s happy. He loves her, they had a small wedding when they stopped in a quaint and homey woodland town. She helps a lot with his temper when the rage is a little too much. One day she comes to him and says it might be time for them to stop adventuring. He’s confused until she places her hand on her stomach and says they’re having a baby. He’s scared but overjoyed. He loves kids. He used to babysit here and there with his grandma back home. So they do it. They break off from the party and settle in a town not too farm from Elmville.

Porter takes small quests here and there to keep them afloat. It’s not much and it’s not particularly interesting but he’s happy at home. Until he isn’t. After his wife has their baby girl, they’re constantly fighting. Fighting to the point of hurting each other. It isn’t pretty and they try to keep it from their little girl but god the older she gets the more she notices and that’s when Porter and his wife sit down and discuss separating. She tells him he can get settled before they discuss co-parenting and he agrees. He moves to Elmville, finds that the big adventuring high school in town is looking for a barbarian teacher. He feels qualified enough. Maybe it’s the arrogance and the ego talking but he feels like he can do it. So he applies and honestly, it’s such a weird interview. It’s so bizarre. Arthur is so strange but he hires Porter on the spot. With his teaching money he can finally afford an apartment. About a month or so of him getting settled his ex wife calls and says a letter from his grandmother came to the house. Porter made trips back to the mountains every few years but it became a lot less after his grandfather died. It was all a little too difficult for him to be back there. 

When he gets the letter, it’s from the doctor that lives in his childhood community saying that Porter’s grandmother is sick. Not on deaths door sick but sick enough that she needs someone to look after her. It’s not even a question in his mind to move her in with him. He takes care of her and he works, and eventually he starts co-parenting. His life is alright.

Sometime around late freshman year or the summer after his grandmother takes a turn for the worst and passes. It’s a bit much and it’s not fair and his heart hurts so fucking much. And somewhere in his grief he hatches a plan. To become a god and fulfill his role as champion long enough to kill god and take her place. He’ll burn the world to the ground if he has to. To make his family and his ancestors proud.

[queenwendy]

Sometimes I get morbidly curious and scroll through the terf tag (bad idea) and half the time it makes me sad but the other half it makes me laugh my ass off because like… they seem to think anybody can walk into a doctor’s office, declare “I am trans!” And just get sex reassignment surgery??? Like, what???? That isn’t how that works at all

I’m a trans woman in the western US, and I am lucky enough to have A) supportive family and B) really fucking good healthcare through my family. To be clear, if you do not have A and especially if you do not have B good fucking luck getting blockers, much less hormones or dear god surgery! It’s nigh impossible!

In early 2018 when I was almost 15, I came out to my parents. Immediately I was put in therapy (that had more to do with the depression and suicidal ideation I experienced while in the closet than being trans). While social transition (different name, different clothes) happened pretty quickly, it wasn’t until my mental health stuff was dealt with that my therapist and doctor, both on the trans youth specialist team, started talking HRT.

The first step was puberty blockers. To get that approved I not only needed parent permission and a ton of forms, I was all but required to bank sperm (as a 15 year old!) and I had to socially transition and meet a bunch of WPATH requirements (I actually like WPATH a lot, to be clear) and wait through a months long waiting list just to get an appointment with a psychiatrist, who then asked me a bunch of questions (he was nice, I do not remember the questions, this was years ago) to ensure I didn’t have some other problem. After passing that, I got a prescription for nogonadotropin as a puberty blocker.

From the time I first told doctors I was trans to the time I had my first blockers shot, a little over 6 months had passed. To be clear, in the US, that’s fast. In the UK? That’s impossibly fast.

It then took another 6 months of blood test, questioners, meetings with my doctor and my parents and my therapists before I was finally cleared for estradoil tablets. 1 mg/day. I got them nearly on the year to the day from when I came out. I was nearly 16

Again, that is crazy fast.

Within a year and a half my estradoil doseage had increased to 6mg/day and I was on 100mg/day of progesterone as well. Eventually that became 200mg/day. Years later I switched from estradoil tablets to estradoil shots.

The entire time I have seen the same therapist, not just for trans healthcare but also mental health stuff. I got SSRIs for anxiety, got an ADHD diagnosis, etc.

In fall of 2022 (I was 19), I reached out to my doctor to say I wanted bottom surgery. We had talked about doing it before, but I had always said “I don’t know if I’m ready.” I was unsure. And even though I could have gotten at least an orchiectomy after I turned 16 if I really wanted to (with parental permission and I am sure so much medical red tape I would have been an adult by the time it happened), I never wanted it. My doctors were surprised I wanted it, so were my folks.

I had to meet with my therapist several times, coordinate with a social worker, and get 2 or 3 letters of recommendation from doctors. Then I needed to unravel who and what my insurance cost and find surgeons I wanted to consult with. That took MONTHS. It wasn’t until fall of 2023, a full year later, that I was FINALLY was able to schedule with two of the three surgeons I wanted (we’ll get to that third one in a bit).

It is now the last days of august 2024. I had my first consultation, which was out of state, earlier this month. It went well. If I had scheduled a surgery date right then and there, there would have been a year long wait time. Which again, is a very very small wait time. I didn’t though, because I wanted to consult with other surgeons and I knew that would be smack in the middle of graduate school.

My second consultation (which, ugh, I need to do some phone calls for to figure out transportation!) is in a few months. The third one? I’m still on a waiting list to GET A CONSULTATION.

To be clear, neither my parents nor my doctors ever pressured me into anything. My folks were completely blindsided when I came out and had basically no idea how to proceed besides using a different name. My doctors always said “well, here’s your options and all the risks. You want that? Okay, think on it for a month and we’ll discuss next steps at our next appointment.” All of this was my choice. Mine. And they never tried to stop me either, just make sure I was being safe and following procedure.

Both my younger sister and my cousin on my mom’s side are trans as well. Considering we have several blood relatives on that side of the family who are also LGBTQ+ going back at least to the 1940s, assume there’s a genetic predisposition for it. Both my sister and my cousin have had a lot harder of a time getting HRT, even though my sister has the same insurance, same provider, same psychologist as me (idk what my cousin’s insurance situation is).

Odds are, I will have my graduate degree (environmental engineering) before I undergo surgery. Maybe even before I have a date for undergoing surgery. If all goes well, I graduate in may 2026. I’ve agreed with my girlfriend that once we graduate in 2026 if we’re still together I’ll feel comfortable getting engaged, so it’s very possible that I will be fucking married before I get SRS. Y’know, assuming it isn’t outlawed or anything.

When I was 14, I figured out I was a girl. Without talking to anybody, I knew I wanted a female body and that the puberty I was going through wasn’t right. Looking back, there were times I almost knew when I was 11, when I was 7, when I was only 3. At that age, I considered “surgery is something I might do when I’m older. I dunno. Right now I have crippling depression and cheat dysphoria, I really just want to be called the right name and pronouns and have HRT.”

I am now 21. I haven’t undergone any surgeries in that time, at all (except wisdom teeth removal ig. Does that count?). I have had one (1) SRS consultation, and the soonest I could get surgery is a year from now, but odds are it will be in two years. Maybe three even.

There is no epidemic of children being told they are trans and getting surgeries. That doesn’t fucking happen. If you’re really worried about kids getting unnecessary surgery look into the weird world of rich white girls getting facelifts and breast enlargement surgeries and stuff. At no doctor’s office in this country can you walk in with one set of genitals and walk out with another at the drop of a hat. There is a YEARS long medical process that happens before a consultation is even scheduled. And before that there is a trans person’s entire earlier life of doubt and questioning and fear and pain.

[panickinganakin]

stepping stones to hell ch.16 (a ronance fic)

all previous chapters of this fic can be found here!

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Before they had left the hotel Nancy had called in an order at a restaurant on the way. “When I said we wanted a large sized pasta I didn’t think it would be family sized,” she said. There were two huge plastic containers almost spilling over with fettuccine and cheese ravioli.

“This is perfect,” Robin sighed happily. She grabbed the paper to-go bag and pulled out another container. “Breadsticks,” she smelled the box and grinned. “This is going to be the best dinner ever.”

”Good thing they packed us paper plates,” Nancy handed Robin one along with a plastic fork.

They both put some of each pasta on their plate and Robin poured them each a glass of wine. She passed a plastic cup to Robin who nodded in thanks. The sky was turning pink and orange as the sun began to go down. Today had been perfect and now she was getting to watch a sunset and meteor shower with Nancy. Even though she knew tomorrow was going to be difficult she was so thankful for the time they had now.

“Who was your first crush?” Nancy asked, passing Robin a fork.

“Oh, the big questions, huh?” Robin tilted her head to the side. It was difficult to say because she had a crush on two girls very specifically starting freshman year. “Tammy Thompson and Chrissy Cunningham.”

Nancy clapped her hands together excitedly, “Tammy and Chrissy! Oh I love that so much! Did you ever confess to them?”

“No way! Imagine the scandal that would have caused. Although one time the band was playing at a basketball game and there was a routine the cheerleaders did with the band like a chant? Do you remember?”

“Yes! The get fired up, I remember. Keep talking,” she said excitedly.

“Well there was one time Chrissy was facing me for the entire routine and when they finished and walked back to the sideline she turned around to smile at me one last time. Oh man, I went home and wrote her a letter on how she was the love of my life.”

“Didn’t slip it in her locker? Not even anonymously?” Nancy gave a fake pout.

Robin shook her head, “I almost did! I had it in my hand and right when I was about to step up to her locker she and Jason were suddenly there. She was giggling and he was sticking his yucky lips on her. I burned the letter that night.”

Nancy tilted her head giving Robin a thoughtful look, “I kissed Barb once,” her voice was soft now. It was more of a bittersweet confession.

Robin laid her hand on top of Nancy's, giving her a half frown. She didn’t want to ask questions because she knew this had to be hard for her. Barb had died so young and Steve had told Robin about that night before. She wasn’t sure if that wasn’t something anyone could get over especially her best friend and probable crush?

“Yes. I had realized that I didn’t just like guys. I had a major crush on Barb and as far as I knew… Well, she had never said she didn’t like girls, you know? One day we were arguing about some stupid math quiz and I just grabbed her and kissed her.” There was a sad look on Nancy’s face as she continued, “We just sort of stared at each other in shock. She never mentioned it after that so I figured I made the wrong choice. I tried to pretend it never happened just like she did and moved on. That’s when I dated Steve.”

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves of the trees around them. Nancy took a long drink from her plastic cup then sighed. “A few months after she died I asked her mother if I could look for a jacket I lost. When I was in her room I found her diary hidden in her closet in an old shoe box.” Her voice cracked as she closed her eyes, a single tear running down her cheek. “She had written about the kiss and how it felt magical. She had said it was everything she dreamed of but she couldn’t say it out loud. When I started dating Steve the diary entries sort of stopped.”

Robin rubbed Nancy’s arm softly, “I am so sorry for what happened to her, Nancy. I wished I could have known her better.”

Nancy nodded quickly, forcing a smile. “You would have loved her. The two of you would have bickered like no tomorrow and I would have loved to watch it.”

They finished eating in a comfortable yet bittersweet silence, watching the colors of the sky swirl together as it turned purple then a dark blue into black. After they packed away the leftovers, Robin poured them each another glass of wine. “Do you have anything planned for work?” She asked Nancy who had just fluffed her pillow to lie down.

“I’m still trying to set something up with Max. She has a lot of changing deadlines with her work. But, we are looking for about a month out because she’s going to have two weeks off work. That is if her current project finishes on time.

“What’s she working on?” Robin laid back beside Nancy, pulling the extra blanket over them.

“I’m not sure. She said she can’t talk about it just yet but maybe by the interview she can. If I hold out on publishing her article until an official announcement that could also help. I’ll probably have to sign a couple of NDAs or something but it’s nothing I haven’t done before.”

”So sophisticated Nancy Wheeler.”

Nancy gave a sheepish grin then sighed. “I know you said before you weren’t sure what you would have done if you hadn’t started touring but what do you think you’d do now? Like if the band decided to call it quits?”

Robin shook her head, “That’s hard to even imagine. Everyone is so close and we all get along. I know we are very lucky for that so it’s a hard scenario to picture. But, I guess if the music and shows were to go away today perhaps I would still try something in film. I don’t know if it would ever go anywhere but I could try at least. I also do think I’d love to own a studio though. Like where kids could come to learn and play whatever instrument they want. I believe Chicago is a perfect place for that too. And I’m not talking about some fancy place but somewhere everyone is welcome. I do think my heart is with music now, funnily enough.” And it was funny to Robin. Sure she was in band and had cared about that but it had never been her calling. Marching band wasn’t even something she imagined herself continuing past high school and now music was her whole life. All by chance.

“That sounds really nice. I think that if I gave up the magazine I’d still find some sort of woman’s work. I don’t think I could ever try working for a bunch of men again. It’s impossible.” Her hand shot up in the air, “You missed it! Pay attention!”

Robin whipped her head back up toward the sky and looked around. She needed to actually pay attention. Which was very hard to do with the prettiest girl she knew beside her. “The stars are so different out here,” she offered. The sky was so clear Robin felt like she could actually see the balls of gas twinkling.

“It’s breathtaking,” Nancy said quietly beside her.

Robin nodded in agreement, looking around, trying to spot constellations as easily as Nancy could. “When is the next full moon?” Robin knew that Nancy would know the answer because of her journal.

“The thirtieth of this month. Then the thirtieth again of October. Just in time for Halloween.”

Robin sat up quickly. “Nancy! Halloween is next month!”

Nancy raised an eyebrow at her, “Yes it does typically fall on October thirty-first.”

“No! I mean yes, but no. This will be my first Halloween home in six years! We have to have a party or do something fun!” She looked at Nancy who was still looking at her with a raised brow but now had a smirk on her face. “It’s my absolute favorite holiday!”

”Perfect! Mine is Christmas but I do love Halloween. We definitely will do something. I’ll make sure not to book anything that day!” Her smile grew into something more mischievous, “We should coordinate costumes.”

”That would be perfect! Maybe we can talk Steve and Eddie into having a party. Their house is bigger than mine.”

”I’ve not been to their house but I’m assuming it’s bigger than mine as well. Plus my landlord is weird about having a lot of cars parked in the driveway.”

”Isn’t that what a driveway is for?” Robin laid back down, shifting herself so she could prop her head on Nancy’s stomach.

Nancy started to run her fingers gently through Robin’s hair. “That is the function of it, yes but he’s my neighbor so he would probably come raising hell.”

”Fair enough. Not our places then. It won’t be hard to talk Eddie into it. For all we know he may already be planning a party.”

”Actually, he probably is. Does he make Steve dress up with him?” Nancy questioned, still running her fingers through Robin’s hair absentmindedly.

”Oh, for sure. They’ve done Rocky and Dr Frank-N-Furter, oh, last year Steve was Beetlejuice and Eddie was Lydia. That was the best one they’ve done yet.”

”I wish I could have seen that! I bet Eddie looked so fucking good. Ooooh, what are we gonna do?”

”Hm,” Robin hummed thoughtfully. “How do you feel about Princess Leia? I can be Han Solo.”

”That sounds perfect! You’re gonna look so good as Han.”

Robin felt herself blush, “Maybe we can participate in a ‘hottest couple costume contest’. I’m sure we’d win.”

”So we’re a couple?” Even though Nancy had sass in her tone Robin didn’t miss the way her voice shot up on the word couple. She had been trying to figure this out just as much as Robin herself.

Were they? It seemed like not that much time had gone by since the interview they had together but then again so much had happened since then. Everything had changed as well. Was it too soon to put a label on things? Could giving whatever they were a title make the fact they’d be juggling long distance even harder? Both of them were young it seemed silly to not just do what they wanted.

“I think we are whatever you want us to be Nancy Wheeler.”

Nancy’s fingers stopped, leaving the palms of her hands pressed against the top of Robin’s hands. “Can I be vulnerable?”

Robin nodded, encouraging her to continue.

“I am so scared, Robin. I haven’t been this happy in a very long time nor have I felt this way before. The thought of becoming something more than friends is horrifying. Or course I have feelings for you but I’m also genuinely so scared. You’ll tour more. I’ll have jobs I have to fly out for and I just don’t know how we will manage to make this work. I want more than anything for it to be possible but I’m scared of how bad losing you will hurt.”

Robin turned, inching herself up so she was next to Nancy, nose to nose nearly. “I’m scared too, Nance. Terrified, if I’m being honest. I want to be with you. It’s all I think about. Being together, spending time with one another… My thoughts are about you so often everyday I know things are different. I also know things are hard because of our jobs. So, maybe we don’t use a label? Maybe we just see where it goes? Who knows what could happen. If you don’t want to be my girlfriend that’s okay.”

Nancy pressed her lips against Robin’s, causing her to hold her breath. She was always saying too much even when being honest mattered most. “Okay.” She said after pulling away.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s just see what happens.”

Stars streaked through the sky, leaving streams of green and blue and Robin could do was squeeze Nancy’s hand a little harder. Letting things take their course was a good thing but for some reason Robin had a lump in her throat. Could the two of them actually make it work?

[mooseyspooky]

A historical or alternative historical fic idea with Moz as a much older wealthier man, a recluse more or less

He lives on a big estate, far away from everything. He has one or two servants, none of whom know him very well. He has a sustainable little field of crops maintained by the help.

A single, solitary cow that grazes the field whose milk gets made into all sorts of useful things. A few goats, a horse. And it's a quiet, very mundane life Moz lives.

Where he spends most of his days writing letters to Wilde and having one of his helpers mail them in the nearest town, and of course none of the letters get replies but Moz continues to write him pages and pages about life and everything else

Then one day Moz looks out his first floor window. And there at the gate along the dirt road leaning up against the stone wall is this filthy, underfed urchin. His hair is long and tangled. His hands are dirty, but the strange thing is - he's dressed quite well. The clothes hang off him, but they are quite stylish for the time.

He's smoking a cigarette and staring down the road. And when he looks up and catches Moz' eye, the smile he shoots him makes the sun look less radiant. Moz immediately closes the curtain, withdraws deeper into the room.

But minutes later the door flies open and there's this filthy child staring at him while the maid fusses at him and tells him to take off his muddy shoes at least - if he's going to be barging in uninvited and making a mess.

He doesn't smell great, either. Moz immediately puts his handkerchief to his nose to abate the smell.

And this boy, who's so thin he could be snapped in two by the slightest breeze, says he's looking for work. Work and a place to sleep. Moz says no, nothing like that here. There's nothing for you here go away.

But the boy is insistent. Johnny, he says. Johnny's my name. And don't you need someone to clean the barn? Moz says as long as you'll leave me alone, then yes.

John Maher. 16 years old, and sleeping in his barn. Did he ever even have parents?

The maid being like christ even if you're sleeping in the barn you're too disgusting and you reek. Making Johnny get the water out the well to fill the tub and pull it in front of the fire. Moz watches quietly from the doorway as she scrubs the boy down like a muddy unwanted dog.

And it's startling because under the filth is a boy with bright brown eyes and messy black hair, most of which the maid cuts off to get the mats out. But he's stunning. Otherworldly almost. His underfed frame suits him.

The hollows of his cheeks, the severe dip of his ribs. The maid doesn't have many clothes around that would fit him, she'll have to sew something for him the next day. So for now he's put in one of Moz' long linen shirts and a thick pair of socks and a pair of loose trousers with a belt wrapped around his tiny waist a few times.

He lounges on Moz' furniture all night, looks through dozens of his books, and smokes at least two dozen cigarettes. All while Moz watches silently, without a word. Standing in the doorway in total fascination.

And Johnny of course doesn't really know how to read, so he keeps sounding out all the words and trying to figure it out and Moz will mumble it and Johnny will parrot him. And so this goes on day after day. Moz will be sat in his library, comfortably flipping through something and Johnny will pop up behind him like a phantom, smelling of animal dung and hay and cigarettes and sweat and be like what's this mean?

And Moz will be like your living quarters is in the barn not my library. I don't even pay you. And Johnny just sits down, staining the furniture and making the maid furious.

So Johnny has House Clothes he has to change into whenever he leaves the barn or the maid will actually murder him. Just absolutely skin him alive. But that's a problem cause Johnny just comes in wearing a loose top that shows off his shoulders and trousers that slip down and show off his hips.

And Moz has just entered his 40th year, he can't be looking at John in that way, he's still too young. And more than that, a young man. Not a young woman. But Moz will clutch Johnny's filthy unwashed clothes to his face late into the night and shiver. Has to stop himself from staining them with something humiliating.

Because Johnny is far more clever than you'd expect. He's bright, he's studious, he loves to catch Moz singing in the garden when he's doing the weeding so the other hired help won't have to. He's incredibly kind, he's almost unnaturally gifted with the animals. Moz isn't sure where this young man came from or where he's going. But he wants him so badly.

God but Johnny is such a mischief maker, he loves to tease Moz in the worst ways possible and it drives Moz mad. His favorite tea cup goes missing, has to go fetch it from the horse stable. He goes out to the garden and Johnny's left his things in front of the door, nearly causing him to fall. He gets his dirty hands all over the place.

And Moz doesn't even mean for it, not really. But Johnny takes the last cup of fresh yoghurt from the ice box right in front of him, starts to eat it with a smile saying he's perfectly within his rights to do it. Moz isn't violent of course, he abhors it really but as Johnny's walking away Moz shoves him against the worktop. The yoghurt near falls to the floor, barely makes it on the counter, but a good size drop of it is on the floor and the silence between them could span an ocean

Johnny's breathing slow and steady, perfectly calm despite being shoved against a counter by a man much older than him and double him in size. And Moz silently points to the ground, says firmly, with no room for argument, that Johnny must clean that up. That the maid isn't going to keep wiping up after him and washing the furniture everytime he comes in from the barn.

Johnny squares his shoulders up, juts his chin out, gives him a dismissive sniff and says nah, no. It's not my fault issit. You pushed me. You clean it up. And Moz rarely feels truly outraged about much, there's little that really irks him, but he takes a seat at the dinner table, dragging Johnny by the hair, and hoists him over his lap like his father did to him a hundred times. But those moments were far more frightening.

Johnny's backside had been all he'd been thinking about these past several weeks and to have it now, presented to him and with untethered access. It makes his heart feel too tight. His throat feels closed up. But he can't show that weakness.

He slams his hand down and readies for another but Johnny isn't struggling. He's panting and flushed and a slight shift gives away how aroused he is, and Moz is unable to move a single muscle. This isn't what he intended. None of this is what he intended.

And Johnny slinks to the floor, crawls unsteadily to the mess he made on the floor and licks it clean, looks to him for approval, like such a thing was what Moz expected - and Moz will either embarrass himself now or suffer the indignity in private so he just halfway nods in approval, says something indistinct then flees to the bedroom to hide his shame. Because he'd never felt such a burning need to have the touch of another man. Of a boy, really, barely old enough to know how to read, a boy who he knows nothing about. Who showed up, and slowly crept into every crevice of his life.

It's sheer madness, perhaps the devil himself in disguise, preying upon his lost faith.

[mikascreations]

hi guys, i may post this on youtube as a community post later but for now it will be a tumblr post for now, here is a letter to the amc

due to the synni/birdie drama and countless other dramas in the amc, after the 489 saga is finished, i will no longer associate myself with the amc nor make animation memes anymore. i genuinely dont understand any of you and im pretty sure im way more mature for my age regarding this (i am below 16, and a good chunk of you act like 8 year olds) ever since the foxi boxi situation this community has been turning into a hellfire and all of you proved to me that you wont plan to change anything or improve from it.

ive been planning to work on comics, cartoons and even games whether it be turbowarp python or roblox and while animation memes have raised me since idk, 2017? i think its almost time for me to move on. ive grown as a person and ive tried my best to improve, and one of those things will be leaving hellholes ive been raised in. as much as my starting point was leaf creatures headbopping to geometry dash music like almost 4 years ago, i am still an aspiring cartoonist and programmer/game designer and these chains that are my childhood have to eventually be broken and i will have to be set free into what i want to become

i can still watch or create shorts or animation trends, but the moment i call something i make an animation meme other than the episodes of the 489 saga is when pigs fly. if you came here to look at animation memes and ONLY animation memes, you only have around 13 more videos of the 489 saga (which even then are not true animation memes, they're parodies) to watch, sorry but this community is seriously turning into the next art tiktok and i dont even use tiktok, go watch mr pedohops pedomemes before hes exposed for being friends with p diddy and drake

you are free to make animation meme fanart of my characters. that is completely fine. but im not going to comment on it or reblog it. i want to make it clear that i want to associate myself as little as possible with all of you once im done with the 489 saga. after that is done, the amount of animation memes i will be making in the future will be zero, zip, zlich, nada, nil.

animation memers, it's time to grow up.